Groves & Shaw
by EvvieJo
Summary: The apocalypse is over, but life goes on. Even if it seemed like it had ended. / series finale fix-it / formerly titled New Beginnings
1. New Beginnings

**New Beginnings**

The subway was so quiet. The secret entrance cut off all the noises from the busy Chinatown street upstairs. All the computers were shut down uncharacteristically, so even the low hum of their ventilators was gone. There was, of course, no one there, not even Bear mauling another squeaky toy or running around to the soft patting of paws echoing around the room.

Perfect stillness.

It made the sound of opening and closing the metal gate that much more deafening. She smirked to herself at the thought, but it only lasted a moment. Her right ear felt especially quiet these past few days, lacking the presence that had been with her for so long. This secondary deafness was somehow more acute than that she experienced years ago, before she got the cochlear implant. Now, though, she was about to make sure it didn't become permanent.

She turned on the lights, and got to work.

She set everything up, made sure the cables were all connected, that blowing up the tunnel and moving the train car didn't damage the carefully constructed network. Everything was fine. After all, she had planned everything with this in mind, and she never miscalculated.

The past several days were tough. Making sure the doctor she had blackmailed shoot her up with the right drug, so that Fusco would see a convincing corpse, shutting down the surveillance system at the funeral home for long enough to put everything she needed into the coffin that was supposed to be hers. Digging up the grave in the middle of the night was also tricky, but that was the only way to get the money, weapons and documents. Thankfully, no one had considered it necessary to have security cameras in the section of the graveyard dedicated to all the Janes and Johns Doe.

There was also the feeling of loneliness tugging at her insides, but there was nothing she could do about that. This was her mission. She had told Harold once she was going to finish what he had started, and she had a hand in the end. Now it was time for a new beginning.

She turned the computers on. The sounds of their little fans whirling away was comforting, like the breathing of a loved one in a dark room. Her thoughts turned away from the subway for a moment, and she made herself refocus on the task at hand. There will be time for that later. The screens lit up, windows popped up the same way they always did, as if nothing had changed. Except everything had changed, and she had something to do.

It took a while to establish a connection and to restart the entire system. She was, after all, working just with the core code on a bunch of laptops in an underground base, there were limits to what she could do. Obviously, she'd been pushing and rearranging limits of computers, systems and networks for most of her life. And now, failure just wasn't an option.

And she knew that everything was going to be fine, as soon as she typed in the last bits of code the Machine needed to restart. She smiled to herself, hit enter and got up. She walked a few steps away, watching in reverence the rebirth of her God.

'Can you hear me?,' said the automated voice in her right ear.

'Absolutely,' she replied with a smile.

Shaw smiled at the security camera as she walked away from the payphone. She wasn't sure why she did it, but it felt appropriate. It wasn't like Root was there to see her, or like the Machine was something to smile at. Or like it was natural for Shaw to smile randomly at things or people. Maybe hearing Root's voice in her ear was beginning to make her more like her. Or maybe she simply missed her stupid face and her stupid smile.

She walked in a quick pace down the street, moving away from the bustling Downtown. People were fewer now, and she didn't have to beeline between them on her way back home or make sure Bear didn't catch anyone with his leash. It was strange that her shithole apartment had somehow stayed right where it was through the months of her absence and the entire apocalypse. Someone seemed to have been paying her rent and bills all this time.

Sure, her place and one measly laptop could hardly make a base of operations, and it was only her and Bear now (she was so not getting Fusco back into this, he'd been stabbed one time too many), but it would have to do for now. Her fridge was still stocked full of weapons and ammo, so at least she had that covered.

They reached the end of a block, and Shaw tugged at Bear's leash to make him stop.

"Hey, sweetie, you busy?," a voice said.

"You just gave me an assignment, so yes," she replied before realizing that the voice didn't originate in her earpiece.

She wheeled around. Bear had already done the same and leapt towards the figure leaning on the wall of the building on the street corner, jerking the leash out of Shaw's hand. For a moment she stood dumbfounded, unable to move an inch away from the spot on the edge of the sidewalk. And the tall, slim figure in front of her smiled one of her ridiculously huge smiles.

"Root?," Shaw managed to say. "But- how?"

Root pushed herself off the wall and reached to pet Bear on the head. She took a few steps in Shaw's direction.

"Miracle?," she offered, but Shaw looked unimpressed. "Okay, this wasn't funny. I had to 'die'," she made air quotes with her fingers, "to be able to help you and restart the Machine without Samaritan discovering me, and it turns out, it was terrible at tracking dead people. Well, officially dead people."

"You faked your own death?," Shaw said angrily. Screw how much she missed seeing her. This was unacceptable. "We needed you! I- I even went to your grave! Wait- The Machine told me Samaritan agents must have dug you up, but-"

Root made a tiny grimace.

"That was me. They buried my post mortem supplies instead of me."

"So, the Machine can lie?,"

There was a moment's pause while Root carefully chose her words.

"Well, there were a few changes I made to the Machine before all hell broke loose, and I might have taught her to conceal information that would have put the mission at risk." She stepped a little closer still. "And you worried about the mission, didn't you, Sameen?"

Now Root was within Shaw's reach, and without thinking, she grabbed onto her friend awkwardly. She wasn't a hugging person, she never knew how to act affectionately, but all she needed right now was to touch Root and hold her close, and make sure she was real, that it wasn't a hallucination or a simulation, or some other shit, that this was real, and they were both alive, and everything was going to be okay.

"Don't you ever die on me again," she said, her voice muffled against Root's shoulder.

"I won't." Root gently pushed Shaw away to look into her eyes. "And now, are you ready to get back to work?"

 **A/N:** It's just a little something I needed to write after watching the finale. It's not proofread, so excuse that. I'll edit it later. There may be a continuation if I don't run out of inspiration. Hope you enjoyed.


	2. Normal People

Shaw had no idea how Root managed to get the train car back into the subway, but it was there, a little bruised and battered after their trip down the tunnel and gun fight, but otherwise exactly as it had been. Everything else was more or less the way it had been before, only sans Harold and with a few more bullet holes. She let Bear loose from his leash, and he began running and sniffing around the subway, looking for Finch. The dog wagged his tail happily for a moment, and then stopped, realizing Harold wasn't there. He went back to Shaw with his head down.

"When did you come back here?," Sameen asked.

"Two days ago. It's been a challenge, putting it all in order. Still haven't finished the gap you blew up in the tunnel." Root pointed to the tarp covering the hole in the wall. "That's a huge mess."

"Don't blame me, it wasn't my idea."

Root sighed and winced.

"Yeah, that was me."

Rolling her eyes, Shaw turned to the computer desk in the main area. There was still a lot of things she wanted to know about Root's last few days, but she didn't exactly feel like talking. Talking just wasn't her thing. And they had a job to do.

"Okay, so who is this number we got?," she said, sitting down at the computer. Root leaned on the desk next to her as she opened the files supplied by their system.

The number's name was Zac F. Parish, and he was a thirty-seven-year-old accountant in a large company. His job sounded as dull as they come, as did his life in general. He had a wife, Stacey, who also seemed dull as dishwater, pretty much looked like dishwater, and worked as a librarian at an elementary school. The definition of boredom. They didn't have children or pets, and lived on the edge of Greenpoint. There was literally nothing about them that screamed "violent crime".

Shaw huffed in annoyance. She had been almost excited to be working the numbers again, but this was disappointing.

"Are you sure the Machine isn't glitching?," she turned back to Root, who gave her a dubious look. "It's not like it's never happened before. And this guy is just-" She waved her hand at the screen showing the most nondescript guy with mousy hair and gray eyes you could possibly find in all of the five boroughs.

"Boring."

To that Shaw nodded, reaching towards the computer to close the files and looking queryingly at Root.

"Don't," she said in a resigned voice. "We'll check him out, if there's nothing, I'll let you do the honors. And I'll make sure the Machine doesn't glitch again. Happy?"

With a forced smile, Shaw stood up, catching Root's arm to help herself up. Not that she needed the assistance; she just wanted to remind herself that it wasn't a simulation and that Root was real.

"You know I don't get happy."

"I know." Root smiled. "So, ready to stalk the most boring citizen of New York City?"

Shaw nodded, and let go of her friend who swiftly moved away to gather what they needed. A bag of surveillance equipment, a camera, a gun, and a shoulder bag. She passed the first on to Shaw, put the weapon in the belt of her jeans, and hung the camera and the satchel on her shoulder.

"I thought you traveled light."

"Maybe I'm getting old," Root shrugged. "Oh and uh- Do you happen to have a car?"

"Seriously, you planned out the takedown of an evil ASI, faked your own death and hid from us all for weeks, and you did it all without a car?," Shaw asked in disbelief.

They were parked across the street from the gray and, unsurprisingly, dull house of Zac Parish and his wife. Nothing had happened in the half hour since they had arrived, apart from Stacey coming back home from work. Shaw almost missed her; the woman was like a chameleon, blending into the boring street seamlessly.

"I had to ditch the one I had stolen," Root explained. She was sitting in the driver's seat and examining her black-painted fingernails.

Shaw thought it was a nice touch, a reminder of the times before Samaritan and fighting for survival every single day. A reminder of the good times they shared in the middle of saving numbers, flying around the country to deal with relevant threats, and that one time they were stuck in a CIA safehouse. She could recall Root had her nails painted black then, too. Everything seemed so easy in hindsight. But maybe everything seems easy after you've been psychologically tortured for the bigger part of a year.

"And you didn't think to get another?, " she asked, looking at the camera screen on which she was observing a stray dog licking its butt. That was a lot more interesting than the Parishes.

"I had more pressing matters at hand."

The dog got up and trotted away. With nothing more to observe, Shaw shot her friend a glance.

"Such as?"

"Such as, a place to stay." Root leaned towards Shaw. "The room I have in the subway might be cosy and all," by the look on her face and the sound of her voice, Sameen knew exactly what was on her mind, "but it's not much of a home. Not when- It's a little bit empty. Anyway, we're not fugitives anymore, so we can be choosers."

"Well, I hope you got a more comfortable bed than the one in the subway, I can feel my back aching just from thinking about it," Shaw said and went back to her camera screen. There was nothing going on, but she chose to stick to observation.

Root moved another few inches closer, tickling Sameen's ear with her breath.

"I did. I got a very comfortable bed. Although, if your back aches, I guess I could do something about it." She reached with her hand to the spot on Shaw's lower back where her shirt rode up, exposing bare skin.

"I thought we were supposed to be working."

"I thought you said the number's boring," Root countered.

"True." There was no denying, and the proposition was tempting. "We could just set up one of those wireless cameras."

Still leaning towards Sameen with a hand on her back, Root smiled radiantly.

"Give me a minute."

She hopped out of the car, grabbing a small device from the black bag in the back seat. With the Machine in her ear again, she didn't need to bother checking her surroundings. She climbed onto a trashcan nimbly and, keeping her balance with the ease of a ballerina, she placed the camera pointed strategically at the house's entrance.

They had already managed to bluejack Zac and Stacey's phones – his by making a stop at his company and sneaking into a break room and hers while she was ransacking her purse looking for her keys – so they had eyes and ears on them. They were in for hours of riveting footage of the most boring couple in the state of New York. But that was better than sitting outside of their house.

Root was really back within a minute, busy with camera settings on her phone. She tapped her fingers a few times, locked the phone and put it away.

"Your seat belt, Sameen." When the answer she got was a raised eyebrow, she added, "We're law-abiding citizens now."

Shaw knew immediately where they were going, the area was much more familiar than she would have liked.

"Wait a sec, are we going to the _safehouse_? Your place is the _safehouse_?"

"Why so shocked, Sameen? It wasn't being used anymore. And I like the place."

They pulled up by the curb and got out. It was strange being back here, the last place she and Root had the last moments of relative peace before everything came crashing down on them. Before she thought Root had died.

"Come on," Root said, grabbing her lightly by the elbow. "I'll give you a tour."

"Root, I've been there before."

They stopped, Sameen mostly because she was still being held and her friend did so. Root lifted her hand to caress Shaw's cheek and swipe the loose strand of hair off her eyes.

"I know. But this isn't the safehouse anymore." She smiled, and it was genuine, blissful, and more than anything else, hopeful. "This is _home_."

"Okay, just lead the way." And then she was grabbed again and led to the building, through the lobby, to the elevator and eventually to the door. The same old, metal unbreakable door. "You kept the door. So much for cosy."

Root's grin widened.

"I couldn't completely disregard safety. And I did get that new bed." She unlocked the door and swung it open before Shaw. "Come on in."

At first, the place looked exactly the way it used to. Only once Shaw was inside did she start noticing the details that had changed. The purple cushions on the sofa, the blooming orchid by one of the windows, the new curtains in light silvery gray. There was a mug left on the dining room table they would often use for strategizing, abandoned by someone who had run out of the apartment in a hurry in the morning. Because this was a home.

"Do you like it?," Root asked. There was the tiniest shade of anxiety in her voice.

"It looks-" Shaw intended to say different, since interior design was close to the last thing she cared about; however, there was no need to sound rude, "nice."

Root sent her a knowing look and led her down the steps to the living space, holding her by the shoulders.

"This is not the end of the tour," she said, taking Shaw towards the room where usually their long-term guests had stayed.

It had become a snug, albeit small master bedroom, most of which took up a king sized mahogany bed. The covers were pulled back messily; clearly whoever had left the coffee mug couldn't be bothered about an unmade bed either. It was obvious from the state of the pillows and sheets that only one person had slept in it. The right hand side of it was untouched.

"It'd better be as comfortable as it looks," Shaw said.

"Wanna try it?," Root murmured into her ear and leaned to kiss her way down the side of her neck.

Shaw didn't answer. It was a waste of time when the alternative was using her lips for things which were much more fun. She turned on the spot, searching for Root's lips and kissing her hungrily, as passionately as she had the first time they kissed after her escape from South Africa. And Root didn't have trouble keeping up with her, running her hands over her stomach and back, and buttocks, and breasts, grabbing onto clothes helplessly, until Sameen took matters in her own hands and undressed them both.

If the size of the bedroom had one perk, it was that at least they managed to make it to the bed.

And it was so much more than just comfortable.

They were lying silently side by side, Root stroking Shaw's arm absently. This was the part she'd always loved most; the quiet companionship, the sense of belonging, the moments of peace in between battle. She knew that Sameen often had trouble with these things, but she would sometimes tell her sweet nothings as they lay in bed wrapped up in each other. She never expected her to say any of them back, and a lot of the time, no words were truly necessary.

"We should check up on our number," Shaw said eventually. "Maybe he's murdering someone in his basement as we speak."

"You're right, though I don't think his house has a basement." Root leaned in to peck Shaw on the lips and got up. "Come on, sweetie."

She grabbed a silk robe from the foot of the bed and put it on. With one last adoring look over her shoulder and an inviting gesture, she left the room.

She settled on the couch with a laptop and fast-forwarded through the footage the camera they had installed had taken over the last couple of hours. Shaw joined her a few minutes into it, yawning prominently. The only significant event was Zac Parish coming back home.

"Do you mind if I doze off for, like, an hour while you watch?," Shaw asked.

"Feel free," Root replied, glancing sideways at her girlfriend, whose eyelids were already drooping.

The rest of the video feed brought nothing new, so Root decided to try something else. She might have said earlier they weren't breaking the law anymore, but hacking was merely a way of obtaining information that could help them stop criminals, so it didn't really count.

Accessing the files of M&J, Ltd., the company that employed Parish, turned out to be a piece of cake. Taking down their firewalls could be done by a five-year-old preschooler on an iPad, and Root snorted at the primitivism. A big firm dealing with mass production of tools and this is how they protect themselves? Amateurs.

She expected the accounting documents to be yet another snooze fest, when she noticed an abnormality. The ridiculousness of it all was that anyone who would take a good look at the books should be able to spot that someone was tampering with them. Thousands of dollars spent on materials or machinery raised no eyebrows. But stationery? Who orders ten grand worth of manila envelopes?

If M&J's IT department was full of amateurs, there was no word to describe Parish. Because, with very little digging, Root was capable of tracing it all back to him.

"Don't you people get audits?," she muttered to herself, as she proceeded to hack Parish's personal computer.

His laptop was on when she gained access. He was squinting, looking through a pair of reading glasses onto the screen, and typing something speedily on the keyboard. It appeared he knew a thing or two about computers himself. Enough to be able to be hacking his dentist's files and replacing the x-ray of his jaws with somebody else's.

Root swatted the napping Sameen on her arm.

"Shaw? I told you the Machine wasn't glitching."

"What?"

Shaw rubbed sleep away from her eyes and peered onto the laptop that was showing exactly what Parish could see on his own device.

"Holy crap, he's not boring. Except, why would he be doing that?"

"Maybe he decided he wanted a little excitement in his life." Root pulled up what she'd discovered earlier. "He's also been embezzling money from his employers for the last eight months."

That almost impressed Shaw.

"How much?"

"Three hundred and sixty thousand. Give or take."

Sameen looked back onto the screen, examining the evidence.

"It looks like he's planning something." She paused for a moment. "Why do you think he replaced those dental records?"

Root bit her lip and hesitated. This was probably the worst case they could possibly have received so close to the recent events of her make-believe death and resurrection.

"Since they use dental records for identification of human remains when they are badly damaged, and he replaced his own with someone else's, I would venture a guess that he intends to- disappear and-"

"Fake his own death. Yeah, you'd guess that." There was a bitterness in Shaw's tone as she said that and she turned away from Root. "So what? We need to stop the murder of whoever he wants to use as his body double? How?"

To Shaw's unspoken despair, they ended up in the last place they wanted to be: parked across the street from Zac Parish's house. Again. Root was on their number's phone, scrolling through his yawn-inducing text messages, while Shaw kept her eyes on the house.

"He never texts his wife. That's weird. It doesn't look like he calls her, either." Root frowned. "The last phone call between them was three days ago. She called him and they talked for less than a minute."

Shaw shrugged.

"Maybe he wanted to get away from her with all the money he had embezzled," she said, never removing her eyes from the front door. Her hands were itching to shoot a kneecap or two. "I guess the guy's never heard of divorce."

"Oh, I think he did," replied Root. Her lips were tugging up in one corner. "I went back to the time he first started his little operation, and then, they were still on speaking terms. Listen to this. Less than a week since the first fishy record, she asked him 'How's work?'. His answer was, 'Better than I expected.'"

They exchanged a look of understanding.

"I'm beginning to like his wife," Sameen said. "Him, not so much."

Root nodded in agreement. Before she could say anything, the door to the Parishes' house opened, revealing their number. He was wearing black from head to toe, including a pair of leather gloves. Since the weather hadn't become quite cold enough to deem them necessary, their purpose was obvious.

"I suppose the guy's watched one episode of _Dexter_ to many," Root chimed.

In unison, they got out of the car, startling Zac. His first instinct was to turn around and duck back inside, but he thought better of it. His knees shaking slightly, he stood his ground on the front steps. It was clear from the way the two women kept their eyes squarely at him that they were heading straight to where he was.

"Yes?," he asked anxiously. "If you're selling something, I'm afraid I don't have time right now."

"Do we really look like sales reps?," Shaw asked her friend dubiously. "If we do, I'd rather go back to breaking the rules."

"Sweetie, if we look like sales reps, then I guess we're the kind that sells assault rifles," Root said and turned back to Zac. "The only thing we could get you is a prison sentence, Mr. Parish. I believe you're on your way to murder someone. The same someone whose dental x-rays you have replaced your own with this afternoon. After that, you are probably planning to plant his body in your house, alongside your wife's. I'm not sure if you've already managed to kill her, but I dare say it's a plausible scenario. I assume you are going to finish it off with a nice accidental fire."

The man was dumbstruck, and he began recoiling slowly towards the door.

"How-?," he managed to choke out.

"It doesn't matter how. It matters that we are pretty good at what we do," Shaw told him. "And we also know about the money."

"If your memory needs refreshing, my dear friend here is referring to the three hundred sixty thousand in your offshore account that you have stolen from your employers at M&J by falsifying stationery orders. Which was transparent and asinine, by the way. The idea your wife had wasn't bad, but the execution leaves a lot to be desired." Root lifted her smart phone up and tapped at it several times. "And the money that I can very easily transfer straight back to the company's account. There would be nothing left to cheat Stacey out of."

Zac shifted his gaze from one woman to the other with his boring gray eyes wide open.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Concerned third parties," Shaw said. There was the tiniest pang of grief in the back of her head when she used Reese's favorite way of describing their job. "Have you killed your wife yet?"

The man shook his head frantically.

"Then we are the people who are going to help you not end up in prison for the rest of your pathetic life," Root began. "You have two options. Number one: you go ahead with the murders, and before you can say Cayman Islands, the police receives the detailed records of your fraudulent little scheme. No money, no freedom. Option number two: you go back in, talk things out with your wife, the police doesn't get notified, and maybe I will even let you keep the money."

For a long moment, Zac Parish continued to stare wordlessly at them. He was trembling all over, and Shaw began wondering if he wasn't going to wet himself on the spot. And that guy wanted to become a cold-blooded killer. Now that's a good joke.

"Why do you think I should believe a word you say?," he asked eventually. He was trying to keep his voice steady, but it broke towards the end of his question.

Shaw drew out her gun in one swift movement.

"Because."

"Or simply," Root said with a smirk, and started walking towards the ever more shaking Parish, "because if you look closely, I'm not bluffing."

She held her phone up so he could see the details of his bank account on it. She made sure she was still far enough for him not to be able to grab it out of her hand, even if he risked getting shot by Shaw. There was a moment when he clearly considered it, judging the distance and the aim of Sameen's gun. He decided against moving.

"You could also take a moment to think about what you're doing," Root said. "Faking your own death? Giving up your entire life? I get it, most of it is pretty lamentable, you hate your wife, and I wouldn't be surprised if she hated you. But don't you have anything else? Nothing you would hate to lose? Family? Friends? You do realize that it's quite difficult to maintain your social life once people think you're dead, right?" Zac looked horrified. "I would know, been there, done that. You will never be able to go back. I'm guessing your friends are a little less okay with resurrections than mine. And even if you didn't have friends. You couldn't even go back to that little cafe on the corner next to your office. And I know just how much you love their coffee and blueberry muffins. Soy milk and two sugars. Two muffins. Every work day for the last three years. Those habits are not so easy to break."

By this point, Zac was white as a sheet. Sharing details like that always freaked people out, and Shaw enjoyed watching the effect Root could have on people when she turned on the analog interface mode. Although this time, this petty enjoyment was marred by a question nagging at her brain. Which had to wait for now.

"All right, I won't do this," Parish blurted out. "Can you just stop pointing this thing at me?"

Begrudgingly, Shaw lowered her gun. Root smiled brilliantly at him.

"Glad we had this talk."

She turned gracefully and started back towards the car. The door to Parish's house banged shut behind him.

"Are you really gonna let him keep the money?," Shaw asked catching up with her.

Root sent her a questioning look and got back into the car. There was no other choice but to join her. Once they were both in their seats, she unlocked her phone and fumbled with it for a moment.

"So?," Shaw prompted.

"Of course not."

And she threw the phone into Shaw's lap. The account had been wiped clean.

It took Shaw a moment to get her bearings when she woke up the following morning. Without opening her eyes, she extended her arm towards the other side of the bed, which turned out to be empty. She had developed this habit a long time ago, ever since she and Root first began sleeping together. Her presence in bed next to Shaw became reassuring incredibly quickly. A safety net. Now she needed that safety more than ever. She kept her eyes shut for another moment, preparing herself not to see the safehouse, but the dreadful hospital-like cell she'd spend just shy of ten months in when Samaritan held her.

She lifted her eyelids carefully to see that nothing had gone away. The bedroom was just as it had been when they turned off the lights and Root put her arm around Sameen the night before. It looked even softer and warmer in the morning light. Bear, who they had taken with them back home, was gone from where he'd slept at the foot of the bed.

As soon as Shaw opened the bedroom door, the smell of food cooking hit her nose. She went into the small kitchen – they had almost never used it back in the day – and frowned. Root was still in her silk robe, with an apron over it and was feeding a very eager Bear bits of something from her chopping board. There were two steaming heat-proof dishes on the counter next to the stove.

"What's going on?," Shaw asked.

"I'm making casseroles," Root said cheerily, throwing another piece of what turned out to be ham to the dog.

The frown on Shaw's face deepened as she glanced into the oven.

"What do we need four casseroles for?"

Root sent her an indulgent smile and tugged her close by putting an arm around her waist. She planted a kiss on the side of her head before saying, "Because we're going to introduce ourselves to our new neighbors."

If there was ever a moment Shaw thought Root was out of her freaking mind, it was then. She made sure her expression showed it.

"What?"

"This is what civilized people do, Sameen."

"Yes," Shaw allowed. "In suburbia. This is Brooklyn. And anyway, _our_ new neighbors?"

The smile didn't leave Root's face for a second.

"Well, do you want to move in?"

Sameen pried Root's hand off her side and moved away, in the direction of the coffee maker.

"What I want is coffee. Because I think I haven't woken up yet. And this is a nightmare."

Root, her good mood completely untarnished, watched her as she fumbled with the buttons of the coffee machine. She leaned in, propping her elbows on the counter of the kitchen island. Having her grumpy girl back felt better than anything ever before. Better than being chosen by the Machine, better than beating Samaritan.

"Come on, Sam," she said, earning another glare from her girlfriend, "don't you want to live like normal people for a while?"

Shaw gave her an incredulous look.

"Normal people? You and me? Normal? Root, we're not normal. We're as far from normal as Fusco is from winning Miss America."

Biting her lip, Root straightened and took a small timid step towards Shaw.

"Of course. We're- different. Special. But-" She hesitated. "Now that- we're not fighting all the time, don't you want to just _live_ for a while? I never really had that. Just- living. Enjoying life. And not stolen moments in between getting shot at. And I never really had anyone to share it with. And let's face it, there aren't many people that would want to share their life with me." She succeeded in making Shaw look at her. "Anyway, there's only one person I'd like to share mine with."

For a moment, all they did was stare at each other; Root with love and tenderness in her eyes, and Shaw with a mixture of awkwardness and affection.

"Okay, just stop with this sapfest, please," Shaw said finally, raising her hands in defeat. "As long as I don't have to sell lipstick again, we can do this whole normal people thing."

Root was beaming.

"I knew you'd say yes!" She grabbed Shaw in her arms with such force she almost unbalanced them both. They staggered into the wall, Root pinning Sameen down to it. "Huh, and what do you say about that?"

"I'd say it's nice, but I think your casseroles are burning."

Swiftly, Root untangled herself from Shaw and turned off the oven. Shaw finally managed to put on the coffee maker, and scratched Bear behind the ears while she waited for it to stop pouring out the coffee.

"I'm keeping my apartment, though," Shaw said.

"I know." Root smiled at her. "I figured I wouldn't want to have your entire arsenal around the house anyway. Normal people don't seem to keep semtex and assault rifles lying around."

Shaw rolled her eyes and took a gulp of coffee.

"They're gonna think we're freaks," she said, gesturing towards the casseroles on the counter. "The neighbors."

"Wouldn't be too far off from the mark, would they?" Root shrugged. "You said it yourself. We kind of are freaks."

"You are." Shaw could feel the corners of her mouth tugging up ever so slightly.

"Want me to get freaky with you?"

Root walked up as close as she could to Sameen, holding her against the edge of the countertop. The coffee mug Shaw had in her hand was between them, threatening to spill its hot contents.

"Don't tempt me," Shaw began, "to waste perfectly good coffee on you. Wait, no, you'd like that. Oh, screw this."

With one quick movement, she put the mug back onto the counter with a crash and grabbed Root forcefully, pushing her against the wall and making her chuckle.

"Bear, weg," Shaw said to the dog, and he trotted out of the kitchen obediently. "Now, where were we?"

The first apartment they visited on their casserole run around the building was the top floor one. The entire apartment building wasn't especially large, just a small post-industrial cube with a few separate flats, one on each floor.

The penthouse apartment had a nice wooden door, just like any ordinary home would have. Root rang the doorbell with her free hand, and smiled at Shaw who was squirming, as she always did when forced into social interaction.

It took a minute for the door to swing open, revealing a woman in her thirties with dyed blonde hair and carefully done make-up. She was wearing sports clothes, but bore no signs of performing any physically demanding activity. Shaw thought she and Root probably looked more tired than she did, with all the spontaneous fun they had on the kitchen floor this morning.

"Hi, how can I help you?," the woman asked.

"Hi," Root said with the most endearing of her smiles (she used that one on unsuspecting victims, Shaw knew that). "I'm Samantha, and this is Sameen, we just moved in downstairs."

Shaw could barely stop herself from staring at Root. She had never heard her use her given name like that, it was always 'Just call me Root' with her. She figured it had to have something to do with this whole 'we're gonna pretend we're normal' thing. As long as she didn't want Shaw to start calling her Samantha, they were fine.

"Oh, it's lovely to meet you, I'm Nancy, Nancy Keeton," their neighbor introduced herself. "Come on in, I just made some fresh grapefruit juice, would you like some?"

They walked in behind her, politely denying the drink. Shaw made sure Root was looking at her as she rolled her eyes while Nancy wasn't looking.

"Oh, and this is for you," Root said, passing the casserole to Nancy. "Just a little gift to buy ourselves into our new neighbors' graces. It's an original Southern recipe."

"This is very kind of you, thank you," Nancy replied, peeling off the plastic wrap from the top of the dish and taking a whiff. "Smells delicious. Are you a chef or something?"

Root waved her hand dismissively.

"No, not at all, although I did dabble in catering for a little while."

It took some effort for Shaw not to snort.

"So what do you do?" Nancy's voice was full of keen interest.

"We-," Root and Shaw started simultaneously and exchanged a glance.

"You say." Sameen forced a smile at her girlfriend. She was half-sure she didn't want to know what the answer would be.

"We're P.I.s."

The fake smile hurt Shaw's face. What? She actually chose an acceptable profession?

"This is fascinating." For some reason, Nancy looked genuinely fascinated. "Do you guys have a card or something."

"We're working on that," Root replied. "We've had a little change in the job department recently. Our old boss moved away, and we're kind of starting from scratch."

Nancy eyed them for a second from under squinted eyelids.

"Wait, was your boss this guy in glasses and a suit, with a limp?," she asked. "Isn't that his apartment you moved into? I thought I recognized you from somewhere."

It seemed their neighbor was a little too observant for their liking. Shaw glanced at Root to measure her reaction, but she looked unfazed.

"Yes, that's him." She smiled brilliantly. "He needed to sell the place quickly when he was leaving, so it was a real bargain."

"I never really saw him much around the place, when I think about it," Nancy said. "But when he was around, there were a lot of people coming and going."

"He's a very private person," Shaw said. "But he has a lot of friends. And family."

Nancy smiled politely, though it seemed that even if she didn't think Root and Shaw were freaks, her opinion of Harold certainly swayed in that direction. The conversation hit a dead end. Shaw tried not to betray just how much anguish this was causing her, mostly because she didn't want to mess it up for Root. It was one of the few things she could give her.

"I guess we should be going," Root said. "More casseroles to pass around."

She began heading back to the door, tugging Sameen gently by the wrist. The touch was nothing like the passionate grabbing earlier, clearly aimed to create the pretence of normalcy.

"It was great meeting you, Samantha. Sameen." Nancy giggled. "Sam squared, huh?"

Shaw feigned a chuckle that would convince no one.

"Kinda, yeah," Root agreed.

"Hey, me and Larry, that's my husband, we'll be having a little gathering next Saturday. Would you like to come over?" Nancy obviously wasn't one to give up easily on the perspective of new friends.

"We'd love to," the reply came before Root could be stopped.

Introducing themselves to all their new neighbors proved way more exhausting than beating up scumbags in the back alleys of Manhattan. Shaw was almost regretting she had ever agreed to moving in and playing house with Root. Of course, there were certain perks involved – because, let's be honest, the sex alone was worth it – but socializing was the biggest downside there could ever be in pretending to be normal.

And then, when Shaw wanted to enjoy the rest of the day lying on the couch with Bear doing nothing, since the Machine had been silent since giving them Parish's number, Root announced there was another important order of business for the day, and dragged her down to the car.

To Sameen's surprise, they ended up at the subway. At first, she had to double check if they had arrived at the right spot, because where just yesterday there was the vending machine that concealed the door to their underground base, there was an actual door.

The door was made of metal and bulletproof glass, and looked quite heavy even before Root turned a key in the lock and pulled it open, smiling sheepishly as she struggled with the weight.

"When did this happen?," Shaw asked, pointing at the new entrance.

"This morning. I had it arranged a few days ago. They dropped off the keys this afternoon."

"When?" She hadn't noticed anyone coming to the safehouse.

"When you were washing off the stench of social interaction," Root replied, pushing Shaw into the subway.

The rest of the place remained the same, which brought Shaw relief. She wasn't sure how much more of those surprises she was ready to take.

Once inside, Root headed straight to the desk in the center of the room, and took out a small rectangular box from a drawer. She laid it on top of the table.

"This is the last one, I promise," she said, as if she were reading Shaw's mind.

Sameen eyed her suspiciously, carefully edging up the lid of the box.

"It won't explode," Root assured her.

"Just tell me it doesn't glitter."

"Sweetie, shacking up is all I'm asking." She tried sounding casual, but a hint of anxious expectation colored her voice.

Casting one last glance at Root, Shaw took the lid off. Inside, there was a thick stack of small white pieces of thin cardboard, bearing the heading which said _GROVES & SHAW. Private investigators _in plain bolded letters. Underneath, there were their contact details, including the address of the subway and a website.

"Are you serious? We're really gonna be stalking cheating husbands?"

"Well, if that's what the Machine tells us to do," Root told her.

"We're gonna ask for money for saving people's asses?" Shaw considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay. I like this cover better than the last one."

Root smiled at her and reached into another drawer, retrieving a thick envelope.

"Except," she said, emptying it onto the desk, "this isn't a cover."

What was inside the envelope were two sets of documents, each including a driver's licence, a passport, a certificate of birth, and a shiny new private detective license. The thing that caught Shaw's eye first was the name she saw on the topmost ID. She looked through all the other papers. They were her and Root's. Sameen Shaw's and Samantha Groves's.

"When I was- fake dead, after I restarted the Machine, I managed to recreate our identities," Root explained. "They're a blank slate. Tabula rasa. We can write whatever we want on it."

"And you want a white picket fence," Shaw said. She tried not to sound bitter.

"No, Sameen, didn't you listen to what the Machine told you? I know you. I know what I can expect from you. I don't want a white picket fence. I want you. Alive. Out of jail. With me."

Root was now close enough to wrap her arms around Shaw, but she didn't even touch her; she could tell none of it was welcome right now.

"And you didn't think I wanted you alive, too?"

The question was quiet, yet it seemed to echo and reverberate through the subway like a thunder. For Root, it felt like a blow in the face.

"Sameen- I wish there had been another way."

"You couldn't tell me? Not even me? Do you know what it was like? It was like- like someone had pulled out a plug. Like there was light, and someone turned off the switch."

An infinitesimal smile tugged at Root's lips.

"I wish I could. But the choice was between leaving you in the dark, safe, and telling you, risking Samaritan finding out somehow, and getting to you before I could shut it down. And I- I just couldn't risk that. Not again." She reached out, putting her hand tenderly on Shaw's. "I promise, I will never do that again."

Sameen looked up on her. It appeared she was appeased, at least for now.

"So you meant what you said to Parish? Fake-dying sucks."

"It's not like you've never done it before," Root pointed out.

"True, but I had nothing to lose then."

"And now?"

Shaw laced her fingers with Root's, watching how they fit perfectly together.

"And now I do."

* * *

 **A/N:** I took a few creative liberties when it comes to the layout of the safehouse, assuming we've never seen all of it. Forgive me for that.  
I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. I have no idea how long it will be, depends on when I run out of ideas.  
Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Don'tTakeNotesOnHowToGetTheGirlFromRoot

**Don't Take Notes on How to Get the Girl from Root**

"I think the neighbors might need another casserole," Shaw said, propping her head on her shoulder, and twisting it to see the large bruise that was beginning to bloom on her left side. "Or some earplugs."

"And I think we broke the table."

Root pointed to the place where the top of the coffee table had cracked. Neither of them was sure how exactly that happened. What was clear, was that Shaw must have crashed into it with her side, but at the moment of impact both of them were too busy with other things to notice such details. They had barely paid attention when they somehow fell off the couch and onto the floor. Maybe it was even then when the accident took place, although Root was quite convinced Shaw was on top of her as they hit the ground.

"That's more of a fact than an opinion," Sameen said, examining the table for a moment. "But I've changed my mind about the blanket. I like the blanket."

When she had first seen what Root claimed to be a comforter for long winter nights, Shaw declared it to be a useless eyesore. It was a huge sheet of fuscia fluff, and that was simply too much for her minimalist decor style. But as it turned out, the blanket proved perfect if you landed on it falling off of a couch, while having sex with your girlfriend. Coffee table accidents notwithstanding.

It still felt strange to call Root her girlfriend in her mind, in some ways even stranger than realizing for the thousandth time that all this is real, and that Root was really back from the dead. Before, there was no need to put labels on what they were doing. Hooking up used to be a enjoyable way to pass the time whenever the world around them seemed to slow down for a while. And it was good. Casual. Sure, Root always made it perfectly clear she had feelings for her, but Shaw liked not addressing the issue on her part. Even if there were times when something stirred in her or when the emptiness around her felt a little less empty, she still couldn't tell exactly what those feelings were. What she did know was she wanted Root alive and well, and most of the time, she wanted to be with her.

Suddenly, Root sat upright, interrupting Sameen's thoughts. Only when she moved did Shaw realize she had been watching her unconsciously.

"We gotta go," Root said, smacking Shaw lightly on the thigh. "New number."

"How do you know?" Shaw frowned. "Are you getting them directly now?"

"I may have made some changes in the Machine for convenience, since Harold didn't stick around to restrict me," Root admitted with a half-smile. "Come on, places to be, people to save."

Root got up, grabbing the clothes Shaw had torn off her earlier, and began putting them on, aware that Sameen's eyes were still on her.

"So, does She ever talk to you while we're having sex?," Shaw asked.

"Like what?" Root smirked and leaned low over her. "Does She ever give me tips on how to get you off?"

There was almost no space left between their faces now, and Shaw wished she could take all those clothes back off Root. But she didn't even stir.

"Yeah, something like that. So does She?"

"No, She respects my privacy. Though She knows everything and now She's getting impatient, because we should be getting to work."

Shaw rolled her eyes as she hauled herself to her feet to get dressed. By the time she was ready, Root had already fetched Bear from the bedroom, and was standing by the door with his leash in one hand and the car keys in the other.

They drove to the subway mostly in silence, comfortable with it. Shaw was beginning to appreciate Root's idea of normal life; those moments when they weren't surrounded by flying bullets and didn't need to strategize getting around without Samaritan discovering them were indeed quite pleasant. Even if she missed the adrenaline rush all of those things used to give her.

It took only a moment to find out that the number provided by the Machine belonged to one Corrie Jacobsen. Corrie was a twenty-one year old working in a coffee place in the Upper East Side and attending evening classes at a community college. Surprisingly, her digital footprint was limited for someone her age; she wasn't on Facebook or Instagram, or any other social network. Or at least so it seemed at first. A little digging led Root to uncovering a deactivated account and to her e-mail.

"It looks like she stopped sharing things a month ago," she said, examining her findings. "And I think I might know why."

She pointed to the messages she retrieved from Corrie's e-mail account's recycle bin. The account from which they were sent didn't have a name attached to it, just the letter B and a string of numbers. Whoever it was, had to be big fan of on-line anonymity.

"That's some stalker stuff," Shaw remarked, reading through the last message. " _Only me can make you happy?_ Who wrote that? A five-year-old?"

Root smirked at her.

"I better cross-reference this with all of Ms. Jacobsen's friends' school reports to check who failed English." She paused for a moment to type something on the keyboard. Whatever the result of it was, it clearly told her much more than it did Shaw. "But excelled in the computer lab. They encrypted their IP address."

"Can you decrypt it?"

Before she answered, Root typed some more on the laptop, and stood up gracefully from the desk. She made sure she ended up mere inches from Shaw, and discovered that she didn't jerk away from her.

"Of course I can, sweetie," Root said, putting her hands gently on Shaw's shoulders to move her a little to the side, so she could open the drawer where she had left their freshly printed business cards. "It can take a while, so we better not waste time. Wanna grab a coffee?"

The cafe where Corrie Jacobsen worked turned out to be an independent place that sold great coffee and overpriced baked goods. The inside was dark, though cosy, cluttered with huge padded armchairs and decorative details like ceramic cats and wrought iron candle holders. Shaw found it to be a bit much, but Root clearly enjoyed the atmosphere. They settled at a free table that was nearest to the high wooden counter, where their number was operating the cash register.

The girl looked tired and anxious, with deep purple shades under her eyes; they showed even through the make-up she was wearing. Despite not being in the best shape, she was kind to customers and offered everyone a small polite smile. Root smiled back at her as she placed their order – a vanilla latte for her and a double shot Americano for Shaw.

"Busy day, huh?," Root said, waving at the crowded room behind her. She needed Corrie to remember them better than any other customer in the cafe if they wanted their number to become their first official client.

"Yeah, I guess." Corrie made a weak attempt at a smile, handing Root her change. "But I like it. Keeps my mind off- of stuff. You know."

Root nodded sympathetically.

"I know the feeling."

"I'll get you your coffee shortly," said Corrie, indicating that small talk was over.

Slightly disappointed that her charm wasn't enough to keep the conversation going, Root returned to their table. Shaw had spent the entire time watching the exchange with Corrie and flipping one of the brand new business cards between her fingers. She barely moved her eyes from the counter to Root as she approached the table.

"You really think she's gonna come to us herself?," Shaw asked in a hushed voice.

"If she's desperate enough." Root shrugged, taking out her phone. "We are going to keep her under surveillance anyway, in case she doesn't."

With a few taps on the device's screen, she cloned their number's phone, and was about to go through the messages, when Sameen kicked her in the ankle to get her attention. Corrie was on her way with their order, making a bee-line between the couple of tables that separated them from the counter. Root dropped her phone into her lap, promptly reaching the hand that had just been holding it to put over Shaw's. The sudden gesture made Shaw jump up an inch in her seat, but she hoped no one noticed.

The look Root gave her made it obvious one person definitely did.

"Come on, Sam, there is nothing wrong about a couple holding hands in public," she teased.

Before Shaw had time to answer, Corrie reached their table and was placing their drinks in front of them. She made an effort to give them both a tiny polite smile, which they returned, thanking her. She dropped her gaze to the table, as she picked her tray back up, and her eyes lingered a second longer on their interlocked hands, and then on the crisp business card that was now lying next to Shaw's coffee cup.

"Enjoy," Corrie said with one last weak attempt at forcing her lips to arch up.

"A couple? So we're a couple now?" Shaw raised her eyebrows.

It wasn't an entirely new idea, but it was weird to put this label on whatever this was. Calling Root her girlfriend was somehow different, even if the two things meant essentially the same.

"I suppose that's what two people who live together, have sex with each other, and care about each other are usually called."

"One, I still have my own place," Shaw said. "Two, okay, yes, we do have sex. But who said I care about you? I don't really care about people."

Root stared at her dubiously.

"You do care. You hugged me when I came back from the dead," she pointed out.

"I don't hug," Shaw countered, and jerked her hand out of Root's grasp. It didn't suit what she was saying to keep her hand there.

"So what was that? I can distinctly remember your arms around me."

Sameen rolled her eyes and took a gulp of coffee to delay her answer. It burnt her throat. Damn it.

"I was checking if I wasn't losing it. That you weren't a simulation." She picked the business card up again to distract herself.

"Okay." Root must have decided to let it go, but there was a smile playing around one of the corners of her mouth as she took a sip of her latte. With all the things that had happened, all the moments they shared, there was nothing that could ever convince her Shaw didn't care. She did care, even if she had a hard time admitting it sometimes.

For a moment they stayed quiet, Root watching their number, and Shaw glaring at the business card in her hand like she was trying to move it with the power of her mind.

"You never told me why you chose that name," Sameen finally broke the silence, tapping on the place on the card that said _Groves_. "I always thought you didn't like it."

"Well," Root began carefully, lacing her fingers together on the edge of the table in front of her. "It seems most people don't put their hacker pseudonyms on their business cards, and they tend to have a first and a last name. I was giving myself a clean identity, so why shouldn't I get back my own? And-" She hesitated and chuckled quietly to herself. "I got used to being called Ms. Groves."

"And you miss Harold," Shaw said.

Root nodded and took Shaw's hand again. This time Shaw didn't flinch.

"And you do too."

Sameen didn't attempt to deny it, she just put the business card back on the table and drank another mouthful of coffee.

"Just tell me I don't have to call you Samantha," she said. "Or Sam. That'd be weird."

"You can still call me Root. I'd rather prefer that."

"Good." Shaw almost smiled as she answered.

They exchanged a glance before going back to work. Root finally got around to digging into Corrie Jacobsen's phone, while Shaw kept her eye on the waitress herself. Neither turned out to be much help to their investigation; to Root's surprise, she didn't find any suspicious texts, not even a trace of them. It seemed whoever was stalking Corrie, they didn't use their cell phone to do it. However, going back a few months, Root stumbled upon an outgoing message that looked like a decent lead.

"Look at that," she said, and placed her phone on the table in front of Shaw.

"Brendon," Sameen read out in a hushed voice. " _It's over, don't you get that?"_ Interesting. He never answered to it. But it seems we've got our stalker."

Discovering Brendon's identity required splitting up. Shaw picked staying to observe Corrie from outside of the cafe. Before they left, she tucked their business card casually under her cup, so that Corrie could possibly find it. She then settled in the car, watching their number, while Root took the subway back to Chinatown.

A quick search of Corrie's digital footprint led Root to a Brendon Huffmann. He was a couple years older than Corrie and it seemed he used to live around the block from her growing up. He did not shy away from social media, so it took a moment to find pictures of him and Corrie that suggested quite clearly they used to date. The last of the photos had been posted five months before, approximately a month before Corrie sent him the message saying it was over.

Finding him was just one GPS search away, and before long, Root was locking up their new subway door, heading to meet him.

Brendon Huffmann worked at a warehouse in Red Hook, and it was there that the signal from his phone placed him. When Root reached the building, there was a security guard dozing off at a front desk, letting her slip by unnoticed. The Machine led her straight to the storage area where Corrie's ex-boyfriend was working.

"Hey, Brendon," she said, entering the room soundlessly and making him jump.

He almost dropped the clipboard and pen he was holding, and whipped his head around. He was relatively handsome, with brown hair and hazel eyes, though he was lanky like a fourteen-year-old who hasn't quite managed to gain full control of his body.

"You scared me," he said, putting the clipboard down on a pile of boxes. He squinted his eyes at Root. "Do I know you?"

She grinned, walking up slowly to him and lacing her hands coyly in front of her.

"No, you don't." Brendon recoiled when she stopped a foot away from him. Too close to be comfortable. "I think you might know Corrie, though."

"Corrie?" He frowned. "You're a friend of Corrie's?"

"More of an acquaintance." Deliberately, she took a step to the side, rounding the stack of boxes she had found Brendon at. "But I happen to know that Corrie has found herself in some trouble."

That made him a little more attentive. He followed her with his gaze, scrunching his eyebrows together, as if he was performing a demanding mental exercise.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well, Brendon," Root said sweetly, "I'm pretty sure you know."

Something seemed to click in his brain then. Root barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes; some people made it incredibly hard to treat them seriously.

"Wait, she still thinks I'm stalking her?" His astonishment seemed sincere. Too bad. "I haven't talked to her in months. I don't even know where she lives now."

Root stared at him for a long moment, until he turned crimson and started sweating profusely.

"I swear to God, if someone is still bothering Corrie, it's not me! She told me to leave her alone, and I did!"

"Why did you two break up?," Root asked him conversationally. Even that tone appeared to make him anxious. "Jealousy? Possessiveness? Another man? Another woman?"

Brendon looked disoriented at first, as if he'd forgotten what happened.

"She told me we had different priorities. That we didn't have enough in common."

"That's a smart girl, then. Always look for someone with similar interests." Root smiled at him widely. "Just one more question, Brendon. How good are you with computers?"

Shaw's biggest regret during her stakeout was not having had anything to eat while they were at the cafe. Going back in now was out of the question, and her stomach was churning loudly. What was even worse was that the surveillance didn't offer much to distract her for the first two hours. The patrons acted like assholes, rich hipster types who complained about everything, from someone putting soy milk instead of almond in their coffee to their muffin not having enough chocolate chips in it. Shaw was glad her days in retail were over, and in a way, she could even sympathize with the waitresses.

She noticed that another girl in the staff seemed to be close with Corrie, who visibly relaxed when she approached her in one of the quieter moments. The line at the counter had dispersed and all customers had been served, leaving the two waitresses in a far corner behind the counter, talking quietly. Their voices were too low for Shaw to hear anything over the bluejacked phone, but from observing their body language, she could tell this was definitely someone Corrie trusted.

"Hey, sweetie, what's up?," Root's voice sounded cheerily in Shaw's earpiece suddenly. "Any news?"

"People are dicks and I'm hungry, so no."

"I, however, do have news. Brandon is not the stalker. The guy can barely check his e-mail without assistance."

Shaw raised her eyebrow.

"So, is that good news or bad news?"

"Well," Root said, "I didn't say it was either. But, I ran a quick search of Brendon's Facebook friends, looking for tech-savvy people."

There was a pause, as if Root was waiting for a drum roll.

"And?"

"And, guess who has a brother at Columbia, studying engineering with a minor in computer systems, and whose name also starts with a B?"

"Couldn't you just say so?" Sameen rolled her eyes; she was convinced Root could sense that. "So what's this brother's name?"

But before she found that out, she noticed a figure lurking at a car parked across the street from her. Judging by the dark hoodie he was wearing and the furtive looks he was casting one way and the other, he was going for stealthy. He was failing quite miserably.

"His name's Bentley," Root said. "I'm sending you a picture. According to his driver's licence, he is of medium built, five foot ten, brown hair-"

Once glance on the photo and Shaw knew it was the guy she'd just spotted.

"Gotcha," Shaw interrupted her. "He also likes to wear black hoodies and hang around his brother's ex-girlfriend's work, I guess."

"He's there?"

"Yup, the stalker's there and doing stalker things," Shaw confirmed, watching as Bentley Huffmann leaned faux-casually against his car. If that was his definition of low-profile, they had different dictionaries.

"I'm on my way," Root said and ended the call.

It took her less than twenty minutes to reach the cafe, making Shaw think she was already coming when she called. In the meantime, the only thing that changed was Corrie leaving her station and disappearing in the back. Bentley stood fixed in the same spot, looking as suspicious as ever. Root snuck up to the car and slipped in without the stalker noticing.

"How's stakeout?," she asked, taking her seat next to Shaw.

"Boring. And coming to an end." Sameen gestured at the cafe.

Inside, Corrie was just walking out of the back, changed out of her work uniform and apron, and into jeans and a sweater. She was putting on her overcoat as she approached her friend behind the counter.

"I'll see you at home later, okay?," they heard over the connection with Corrie's phone.

"Will you be okay?," the other girl asked with concern.

"So they're roommates. Makes sense," Shaw remarked, glancing at Root, who raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah. Like we're roommates."

Shaw whipped her head around to see Corrie pecking the other waitress on the lips quickly and heading towards the door.

"Alright, they're a couple. Time to go," she said, rolling her eyes at Root's smirk.

Before she managed to reach the door handle, Root grabbed her by the arm.

"Wait."

They watched as their number went out into the street, wrapping herself tighter with her coat and picking up her pace. Her moves were small and nervous, her eyes were down. She must have been too scared to be out in the open to even look out for the real danger, avoiding all eye contact.

Corrie was a few feet away from him when Bentley pushed himself off of his car, taking his hand out of his pocket with something white in his hand.

"Now we are going," Shaw said, pushing the car door open. Root followed suit. "Hey, Bentley!"

Both the victim and the stalker jerked their heads up at the same moment. The terror blanched Corrie's face in a second, while Bentley hurried to shove the ether-soaked rag back into his pocket. He was about to dash into his car when Root jogged up to him to block his way.

"What do we have here?," she said, reaching casually into the pocket of Bentley's hoodie. "Ooh, smelly stuff. No one ever told you the way to a girl's heart is not through kidnapping?"

Shaw sent her a dubious glance.

"Look who's talking."

"Come on, Sam, you're special." Root smiled sweetly at her, before turning back to Bentley. "I'm pretty sure Corrie does not appreciate your attentions. Am I right?"

Corrie looked with a mixture of horror and confusion from Root to Bentley to Shaw, and it took her a moment to nod in response.

"See? You're being creepy. Stop."

"Who the hell are you?," he asked, straightening and staring down at Root defiantly.

He couldn't have known that she wasn't easily intimidated. Without breaking eye contact with him, Root took out a flash drive from her jeans pocket and lifted it up to show him.

"Just some people with dirt on you." She put the drive back where it came from. "I have to admit, you're pretty good, covering up your tracks and all. I'm just better. There's probably only one person who could possibly beat me, though, so don't feel bad about yourself."

Bentley was clearly getting furious, clenching his fists and casting murderous glances at the two women who had interrupted his plan.

"Don't you get it? She belongs with me!," he said angrily to Root, waving a fist at Corrie, who cowered behind Sameen. "She just needs to realize it! She shouldn't have been with my brother, or with that skank, she's supposed to be with me!"

Shaw raised an eyebrow; she almost felt pity for him.

"I'm pretty sure that's not the way she'd be acting if you were right," she said. "She's terrified of you."

"I would never be with you, Bentley." Corrie finally found her voice and took a step forward, still keeping Shaw in front of her. "You're arrogant and violent, and I never even wanted to hang out with you. It's not because I dated your brother, and it definitely isn't because of Melanie. It's because of _you_."

Miraculously, Bentley's knuckles went even whiter than before, and Root was expecting him to punch something or someone and moved a step away. Shaw took out her gun and pointed it at him, rolling her eyes.

"One move and I'll shoot you," she told him. "And then my girlfriend is going to be pissed, 'cause I'm not supposed to be shooting people."

Bentley turned his attention fully on Shaw, holding on to the rest of his restraint for a moment. That was enough for Root to decide he wasn't going to keep calm for much longer and it was time for her to intervene.

The second Bentley Huffmann began walking towards Shaw and Corrie, Root whipped out her taser and unleashed 50,000 volts onto him, making him crumble lifelessly to the ground.

"Nice," Shaw said sarcastically. "Be careful, or I'll get jealous."

"You don't get jealous, sweetie."

"Good point."

"Is he- dead?," Corrie interrupted them in a small voice. It seemed she was still terrified.

Root shrugged and checked his pulse. A little erratic, but certainly present.

"Nope, still eligible for arrest." She looked to Shaw, producing zip-ties from her jacket. "A little help?"

Tying Bentley up and stuffing him into the backseat of their car took them a couple of minutes, during which Corrie watched them with concern. She wasn't fully comfortable with what was happening, however, incapacitating the man who'd been harassing her for months made her trust them enough to stick by them until they were done.

"You were at the cafe earlier," she said, once Shaw shut the car door with a bang. "How did you know he was going to do this?"

Root's mouth tugged up in one corner.

"A little birdie told us. It's kind of our job."

Corrie looked like she wanted to ask another question, but eventually she just nodded and reached into her coat. When she took her hand back out, she was holding the business card they had left at their table. It looked a little more battered than the last time Shaw saw it.

"You're P.I.s, right?" Root nodded in reply. "I was- I was actually going to ask you for help."

"See, I told you it would work," Root turned to Shaw.

Shaw forced a smile at Corrie.

"She likes being right. Don't listen to her."

"Okay, now I'm not sure if I shouldn't have you arrested for stalking me, too," Corrie said. "But you did save me, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Do I have to pay you or something?"

Root circled the car to take the driver's seat.

"It's not like you were our client."

"You still helped me," pointed out Corrie. "And it's your job."

"We're not exactly used to getting paid for it, though," Shaw shrugged, opening the door on the passenger's side. "Just go home, this creep won't be bothering you anymore."

After a moment's hesitation, Corrie nodded in agreement.

"Thanks then, I guess." She paused and frowned. "By the way, that thing about her kidnapping you," she said to Sameen, "is that true?"

"Yup."

"She kinda liked it, so it doesn't count," Root added. "But you know, she's not like most people."

That didn't appear to make Corrie more at ease.

"Alright, I don't want to know. Again, thanks-" She held up the business card and read out, "Groves and Shaw. Has a nice ring to it."

"Doesn't it?," Root said with a smile.

Walking through the hallways of the 8th Precinct felt just like the old days. Root made her way confidently with the Machine telling her all she needed to know. The station was almost empty, but she hadn't even waited for Her confirmation before she drove here, she knew she was going to find exactly the person she was looking for.

She found him at his desk, bending over paperwork in the bright light of his desk lamp which made for the only illumination in the room. All the other detectives had clocked off, but he was still there, diligent as ever. Maybe even more diligent now that he was alone. The desk across from him had not been reassigned to anyone new, even though it no longer bore the name of Detective Riley.

Lionel Fusco didn't look up at the sound of her footsteps. He was knitting his brow over a thick stack of files, his reading glasses slipping down his nose.

"Hello, Lionel," Root said, making him jump up in his seat.

He blinked quickly to adjust his eyes to the dim lighting of the rest of the room.

"Okay, either you're pulling a prank on me or I really gotta get the hell outta here, 'cause I'm going crazy," he said, and rubbed his eyes.

"You are perfectly fine," Root said, pulling up a chair to sit next to his desk.

"Cocoa Puffs? Are you for real?" He sounded almost relieved, before he added in an annoyed voice, "I went to your funeral."

"And I appreciate that. But I wasn't in the coffin."

She made a grimace.

"Of course you weren't." Fusco sighed, going back to his file. He began turning the page, then stopped halfway. "Any chance my partner wasn't in his?"

Root put her hand over Fusco's forearm comfortingly, just for a second; she took it back before he could shake it off.

"You know he was."

"I know. Just checking." He glanced at her sideways. "You let Sameen know, though, didn't you? She'd be pissed if you told me before telling her."

"She found out first, sorry."

"Sure. So, what do I owe the honor?"

Root grinned at him, taking out the flash drive with everything she had on Bentley Huffmann.

"I know it's not really your department, but there is evidence on this, and you're the only friend we have on the force right now."

"Evidence? Of what?"

"Stalking." Root stood up gracefully and began walking away. Then, she turned back to Fusco, as if she'd just remembered something. "Oh, and the suspect's on the front steps, I'm not sure how long he'll stay unconscious."

Fusco sighed deeply and closed the file he'd been reading.

"Why am I not surprised."

"Thanks, Lionel." Root reached into her pocket again, and placed another of their crisp business cards on his desk. "In case you wanna catch up."

He picked the card up with a frown.

"Going steady, huh?"

"You could say so."

She made a little waving gesture at him, and headed back towards the hallway. It felt good to be back here, working with Lionel.

"Hey, Cocoa Puffs?," he said after her, and she glanced back at him. "I'm glad you're not dead."

Root nodded in acknowledgement and started back down the hallway. It was almost like it used to be, as close as it could ever be without John and Harold. She let out a tiny sigh and pushed the precinct door open. Chilly air swept over her, and she zipped up her leather jacket, glancing at the slumped figure in a black hoodie near the door. The Machine helped them place him out of sight of the security cameras, and now Lionel was going to take care of him. Job done.

Satisfied with the day's work, she walked briskly back to where they had parked the car and slipped in.

"So," she said to Shaw playfully as she settled in the driver's seat, "do you wanna talk about how you called me your girlfriend?"

 **A/N:** Writing this went slowly, but hopefully at least some of it came out okay. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Of Love and Psychopaths

Root flipped her hair and looked demurely over her shoulder.

"How do I look?," she asked coyly.

Putting another potato chip into her mouth with one hand, and never stopping scratching Bear behind his ears with the other, Shaw glared at Root. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy the view – Root looked pretty spectacular in her slinky burgundy-colored dress that left her shoulders and upper back deliciously bare – though the reason for her dressing up caused her as much chagrin as anything possibly could. Or maybe it was just annoyance, she couldn't tell. She was convinced, however, that she would have much more fun tearing that sexy dress off of Root than going to that party in the penthouse apartment.

"Good," Shaw replied finally. "Just don't make me say it again. Saturday night at our neighbors' is torture enough."

Root made puppy dog eyes at her and climbed the bed on all fours, stopping inches away from Sameen.

"It's what we should do, Sam, if we don't want them to think we're some kind of psychopaths."

"We are," Shaw pointed out, "some kind of psychopaths. With or without them thinking that."

"Exactly." Root grinned. "Better to keep a low profile."

If her hands were free, Shaw would probably consider strangling her there and then. Of course, she'd regret it seconds later, but sometimes she was tempted.

"I hate you," she said, trying to convey as much of her contempt for the idea of socializing as she could manage with her facial expression.

"You love me, you just don't want to admit it," Root told her teasingly and froze. The smile on her face faltered and died as she searched Shaw's gaze.

There was still a trace of that irritation from earlier in the way Shaw looked at her, but there was also another component to it, a more vague one, much trickier to identify. They stared at each other for an awkward moment, bewildered that they could still be uncomfortable with each other.

It took Root a moment to force herself to move away from Shaw, slip off the bed and head for the door.

"You should get ready," she said from the threshold and left the room.

Bear lifted his head in confusion, knocking Shaw's hand off and looking at her quizzically. She patted him absent-mindedly, shoving aside the half-emptied bag of chips. She should get ready, she knew that, so she got to her feet begrudgingly. It might have been impossible for her to confirm what Root had said, especially given naming feelings had always been difficult, but this was something she could actually do for her.

She retrieved the dress she'd brought from her apartment for the occasion from her almost empty part of the closet. It was black and simple, and she thought she'd look inadequate next to Root. Or maybe it was just this thing people did when they found someone attractive, and thought lesser of themselves in comparison.

Changing from her regular clothes and into the dress took her less than a minute, and she was just combing her fingers through her hair, when the door opened suddenly.

"We have a new number," Root said. She still didn't seem to be quite at ease; her face was drawn and lacked her characteristic smile.

"Does that mean no party?," Shaw asked hopefully, trying to ignore the tiny pang of guilt in her chest the sight of Root like that caused her.

"I should probably say that we have a name," Root corrected herself, and added, seeing Shaw's surprise. "Lawrence Keeton."

Sameen's confusion only grew.

"It's our neighbor. That's why we got his name, instead of his number," Root said. "Not to waste time checking."

Rolling her eyes, Shaw stepped into her high heels and sighed.

"Guess the party's gonna be killer."

Root almost laughed. Almost.

The trip to the top floor of the apartment building was short, silent and unusually uncomfortable. Sameen didn't know how to dispel the awkwardness without having to bring up her least favorite subject, so she kept her mouth shut, armed with a bottle of expensive wine they were giving their hosts. And thinking this was only the beginning of a hellish night made her want to smash her head open with that bottle.

As soon as Root rang the bell and footsteps sounded on the other side, they forced their features to rearrange into expressions of friendliness and enthusiasm. If Shaw didn't know better, she would totally fall for Root's wide cheerful smile. By now, though, she could notice the minute details that differed in her genuine and fake expressions.

Nancy Keeton greeted them warmly at the door, pulling first Root, then Shaw into a one-armed embrace, and giving each a kiss somewhere to the left of their faces.

"Come on in, make yourself at home!," she chimed happily, waving her hand with such swing that the wine in the glass she was holding made a tiny tsunami.

The open living space of the penthouse apartment was filled with close to a dozen people. For a moment, Shaw thought that half of them were Nancy's relatives, but at second glance she decided they all must have been clients of the same beauty salon and probably shopped at the same places, since their resemblance was in hair, make-up and clothes. The other half were men, who soon turned out to be, almost exclusively, Larry Keeton's colleagues, while the women were their wives or fiancées.

Shaw tried to remember all the highly ordinary names Nancy introduced her friends with and nodded with a smile at everyone, but she paid the minimal amount of attention to the people. She was getting impatient in part because their new number was nowhere in sight. And then, her mind was still stuck at Root and what she had said earlier.

Finally, when everyone had been introduced and conversations were being struck around the room, the door to the roof terrace opened, and Lawrence Keeton joined the party, holding a cell phone in one hand. He was a man in his late thirties who looked much like a lifesize Mattel product, maybe with the exception of the delicate threads of silver in his perfectly styled hair. The cut of his suit pants and shirt was impeccable, and it was quite clear this was an attire he was used to wearing on a daily basis.

"Everyone, it's official," he announced, lifting his hands in an almost religious gesture, "today isn't just an occasion to have some great wine. The board has made its decision and they are promoting me to chief small cap operations officer!"

Shaw's knowledge of the stock market wasn't enough to make out what exactly this meant, beyond being a possible motive for murder, but if Nancy's enthusiastic shriek was any indication, this was something big.

"I knew it!," Nancy cried out, running up to wrap her arms around her husband's neck. "I knew they would choose wisely!"

A general choir of congratulations started among the guests. The chaos made it more difficult to pick out suspects, but on the other hand, the suspects were less likely to spot Root and Shaw observing them.

It wasn't especially challenging to pick out two main candidates for the night's murderer. The first one was a young woman with the face of a china doll, the only one who wasn't introduced as anybody's wife or girlfriend, but as Larry's executive assistant. She was eyeing the Keetons with her red-lipsticked mouth formed in a disgruntled pout.

Root made her way through the crowd discretely towards Sameen and indicated the assistant.

"Look out for Laurel," she said under her breath.

"You mean the assistant? I know." Shaw took another look at everyone gathered. "And check out George over there."

The man she singled out had been introduced as one of Lawrence's closest co-workers, and was now making desperate attempts at appearing happy for his friend. Unfortunately for him, his acting skills were incomparable to Root's.

The congratulations went on for several minutes, until everyone returned to their abandoned drinks and small talk. Meanwhile, Nancy glued herself to her husband, staring adoringly up at him, and when she remembered her neighbors hadn't had the pleasure of officially meeting him, she dragged him across the room.

"Larry, these are Samantha and Sameen," she gestured towards them, "the new neighbors I was telling you about."

"The two Sams, huh?," Larry asked, extending the hand that hadn't been claimed whole by his wife to Root, and then to Shaw. "Nancy was really excited when she found out there were new ladies she could gossip with in the building."

"Nancy made us feel very welcome," Root said. "And, I suppose we should congratulate you. Some big shot position?"

Even before Lawrence got into the details of managing the stocks of small businesses Shaw had an urge to knock him or his blindingly white teeth out. To keep both her hands occupied, she held on tight to the wine glass Nancy had presented her with earlier and to Root's arm. Someone had better commit that murder soon, or she was going to do it for them.

"We should make a toast!," she proposed, interrupting the discussion that Larry was all too eager to continue for the next century.

She didn't have to wait long for Nancy to catch onto that idea. The hostess looked around for the last full glass of wine standing on the high kitchen counter.

"To Larry, the up-and-coming star of Wall Street!," she chimed, rising her glass and giving the other to him.

"To Larry!," everyone echoed.

Lawrence bowed his head humbly, but didn't lift his glass to drink.

"Thanks again, guys, but I'm sorry, I can't drink the toast with you." His expression was genuinely apologetic. "My doctor told me absolutely not to mix those antibiotics with alcohol."

He untangled himself from his wife to set the untouched glass of wine on the bar that separated the living area from the kitchen.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, honey, I completely forgot!," Nancy said with a giggle. "That nasty laryngitis! Thank goodness you got your voice back!"

There was a loud crash that turned all heads towards Laurel. She must have put her wine glass down on the coffee table with too much force, making the delicate glass crack open on impact. She apologized shortly for the damage and half-heartedly offered her help cleaning up, though her face showed blatant disdain whenever she looked at Nancy.

Root and Shaw exchanged a glance, forgetting for the moment their own personal drama. Using the commotion as a distraction, while Nancy was picking up the broken glass and wiping up the spilled wine, Sameen slipped to the counter and took a tiny sip from Larry's abandoned glass.

The wine was bitter, much more so than it was supposed to be.

She made her way back to Root without anyone noticing she ever moved. That had to be an upside of knowing pretty much nobody. No one paid attention to her.

"Strychnine. In the wine," she whispered in Root's ear.

"Ooh, it's getting interesting," Root said, a bit too eagerly.

"My bet is on Laurel. She seemed a little too upset he didn't drink the wine."

"Hmm." Root didn't seem quite convinced. "Or she was upset that Larry's wife isn't caring enough."

Shaw frowned.

"She's in love with him, right. So it's not about the promotion?"

"I don't know," Root said under her breath. "We just have to stick around and find out."

With that, she dragged Shaw in the middle of the gathering, straight into hell of social interaction.

No encouragement was needed to have the group – especially the women – focus on Root and Shaw once they had thrown themselves in the middle of it. They were, after all, new gossip material, and most of them were the kind of people who breathed other people's business. Larry and his work friends quickly fell into a conversation of their own, interested only in business of the financial sort. That left two people who didn't seem to be part of either group – Laurel and her date Alan (who Shaw figured wasn't her boyfriend, though not for lack of trying on his part). The two seemed mildly annoyed; she with Nancy, and he with the fact that his date was treating him like he was air.

"So how did you two meet?," Kate, who was married to Larry's friend George and was clearly the biggest gossip of them all, asked their newest acquaintances. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, like she was getting ready to hear the most fascinating story in the universe.

Shaw could barely restrain herself from rolling her eyes.

"At work," Root said sweetly, taking Shaw's hand tenderly. "It was a- missing person case."

"She wanted me to give her some information, but I didn't have it, and-" Shaw paused, glancing at Root. She wasn't sure how exactly she was expected to play along.

"And it wasn't a very nice first meeting," Root finished for her. "But then we met again and-"

The whole group was listening intently, waiting for a romantic happy ending. Sameen wasn't going to give them that.

"And I shot you." She mimed Root's expression as faithfully as she could.

The other women gasped.

"You didn't!," Nancy exclaimed. Shaw noticed in her peripheral vision that Laurel huffed with irritation.

"She did," Root said in a voice full of adoration, and pointed to a faint white scar on her left shoulder. "Right here. Not without reason, I would've done something stupid if she hadn't."

The group cooed, as if they were watching a baby animal doing something ridiculously cute.

"So how did you end up together?," Nancy pressed, getting louder and more tactile with each sip of wine. By now she was glued uncomfortably close to Shaw's side, closer even than Root.

"Well- it was a process," Root said.

"By which she means she wouldn't leave me alone," Shaw added, trying to seem involved in the conversation and keeping watch of the group of stock brokers, whose discussion was getting a little more heated.

"It worked, though, didn't it?," Nancy said with a laugh.

Root smiled at her, her face a perfect mask of sweetness. To Shaw, it was clear this was nothing more than a façade. She also knew her words stung.

"She wasn't all that immune to my charm," Root answered finally. She wanted to add something, but bit her tongue.

Then, the group's conversation got interrupted by the men. George's voice rose over all others, startling everyone, and completely stunning Larry, who looked like he had just seen a ghost.

"Do you know why your wife is so excited for your promotion? Why she's so happy?," George was yelling. "Because she has no idea what the hell she's talking about! The board must have lost their minds to give the position to you! I've always had better results than you! It's just cause your father-in-law's on the board that they would even consider your sorry ass for the position!"

As soon as he finished shouting, George looked around horrified. It didn't seem like he had planned to explode like that. Every pair of eyes in the room was staring at him in awkward silence, waiting for him to make his next move.

It took him a second to regain control of himself, raise his head up high and wave at his wife to stand up.

"Kate, we're leaving," he said, his voice barely holding steady.

Kate gave the others a small apologetic smile, but stood up and joined her husband on his way to the door. Midway, she turned around to gesture at Nancy that she would call her later.

"Okay, so that was awkward," said Shaw the moment the doors closed after them.

No one contested that.

After another hour of small talk – more strained now when the gathering had been disrupted by George – made better only by some delicious mini-quiches, wore Shaw out like few things could. She felt their number was now safe enough for her to have a breather, so she went out onto the roof terrace.

The air was chilly and crisp, too cold already to have the party outside, but it was refreshing after hours spent in one room with way too many people. The terrace was empty and peaceful, with just the muted sounds of the conversations from inside and the usual noises of the city marring the calm.

Shaw breathed in deeply, cherishing the moment alone. She wished the case had turned out more interesting, but on the other hand, she had her own problems to think about. Maybe this was better.

She was just thinking about that situation from earlier, the way Root turned so serious and moved away from her, when the French door open, letting out a peel of laughter and a piece of muttered conversation. Shaw turned around to see a familiar slim, tall figure, hugging her arms to her chest to shield herself from the cold.

"I'm sorry about before," Root said, as if she could read Sameen's mind. "I know it's not you don't want to admit it, I know it's just hard for you."

Shaw dropped her gaze, breaking eye contact. It wasn't Root who should be apologizing.

"Don't be sorry," she said, looking up again. She felt uncharacteristically nervous. "There are things I can't say, and it's not because I definitely don't feel them, I just don't know if I do. What I know is, it sucked when you were dead. It was empty and stupid, and it was- The worst couple of weeks. And I know that. And I know that when you sent me that message, back when Samaritan was torturing me, that was what kept me going. These things I know. These things I can tell you. Other things- You deserve other things. But more than that, I think you deserve to be told the truth. And the truth is, I don't know."

Root didn't interrupt her until she was finished; she just stared at her and let her talk. Her face was obscured in semi-darkness, making it difficult to read her expression, but as soon as silence fell again, she held out her hand to lace her fingers with Shaw's.

"You don't have to explain," she said. "I knew what I was getting myself into, didn't I?"

She smiled at her widely, genuinely this time. With what felt a lot like relief, Shaw pushed herself forward, kissing Root on the mouth, almost throwing her out of balance.

They didn't know how much time had passed, with their mouths joined and chasing each other, and with Root's hands tangled in Sameen's hair, when a shrill scream within the penthouse apartment made them jump apart. All they could see at first through the French windows was that Alan was suddenly in the center of the room, right in front of Larry.

Within seconds, they were rushing back inside.

"I honestly didn't mean it like that!," Larry was saying in a panicked voice. He was holding his hands up again, but this time in surrender.

"Like what? Like you treat her like shit?," Alan replied furiously.

Getting back in, they could now see the reason behind the scream; Alan was holding a long, thin knife that he'd probably snatched off the kitchen counter. Either something had really set him off in the last few minutes, or what Shaw had taken for annoyance earlier was actually a quietly simmering anger that finally boiled over.

"I don't, I swear! She's- She's my right hand!"

The defensiveness in Lawrence's tone sounded desperate. Laurel snorted and got up to her feet abruptly. She didn't seem as bothered by the knife as the others; maybe Alan acting volatile wasn't news to her.

"Oh yeah, right hand." She lifted her own right hand with just her index finger extended. "One, no raise in- ever. Two, I pick your dry cleaning, even when I would be of more use at the office. Three, I don't think you've ever complimented me on my job. Even though I have never made a mistake. Not once. Four, I would've done anything for you, you prick!"

By the end of her speech, Laurel was on the brink of tears. She glanced at the rest of the guests, all of whom had frozen with terrified expressions on their faces and at Nancy, who was shaking and crying silently.

Alan put the knife at the base of Larry's neck, causing Nancy to make another inhuman noise.

"Don't encourage him!," yelled one of the other women, whose name had already escaped Shaw's memory.

"What do I care? I don't even work for him anymore," Laurel said, gesturing at Larry.

"Except, I'm pretty sure you're still in love with him," Shaw countered, drawing everyone's attention to herself. Lawrence's apparently former assistant looked scandalized, and Alan's hand trembled over his victim's Adam's apple.

"What?!," Nancy asked through broken sobs.

Shaw rolled her eyes, yanking her nine-millimeter handgun from its concealed holster on her thigh. There were gasps all over the room as she did that, though it only made her grow more impatient with those people.

"So, the way I see it," she said, waving her gun casually, making everyone cringe and shrink within themselves, "Laurel here fell in love with her boss. How original. Even if your boss is a dick, that happens just way too often. She felt unwanted, 'cause, surprisingly, Larry actually preferred his wife. Am I right?"

Larry nodded his head minutely and winced when the movement caused his skin to meet the cold edge of the blade.

"But then Alan fell in love with Laurel," Shaw continued, "though I have no idea if either of them was a dick to one another. Possibly, judging by tonight. Laurel didn't want Alan, what a sob story, but Alan was still desperate enough to win her heart that he tried to defend her honor by trying to kill the asshole boss that didn't love her back."

The room fell silent. Alan's hand was trembling so much Shaw began to wonder if he wouldn't flay Larry's skin just by holding the knife. His eyes were bulging, but he didn't say anything, shocked out of an ability to speak. Laurel stuck her gaze to the floor.

"Guess I got that right," Shaw said. "So, Alan, can we call it quits and leave poor Larry to live out his days tormenting another assistant?"

He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the knife.

"No!"

"Then you leave me no choice."

Sameen held her gun up, yet before she could pull the trigger, Alan fell to the ground in convulsions. Behind him stood Root, who must have snuck up while everyone was focused on Shaw. She had her taser in one hand and a cocktail in the other.

"Nice talk, Sam," she said and bit the straw in her drink.

"What the hell was this?!," Nancy whined.

"Actually," Larry said to Shaw and Root, slightly out of breath and clutching his throat like it really had been slashed, "I just wanna know, how the hell did you know all this? And why did you bring a gun to the party?"

Root shrugged her shoulders.

"It's kind of our job. And Shaw never leaves the house without a gun." She took a sip out of her drink and went back casually to the seat she had abandoned. The people closest to her recoiled when she drew close, but she acted like she didn't notice.

"And you probably should be grateful we came prepared," Shaw added. "Oh, by the way, Laurel, if you decide to keep Alan around, you should be careful with your drinks."

Everyone looked at her in confusion.

"Why is that?," Laurel asked sneeringly. "And who says I want to keep this psycho around?"

"You didn't seem to mind much when he went psycho," Root pointed out, but she was ignored.

"Because before he pulled a knife, he put strychnine in Larry's wine," Shaw answered.

"What?"

The first person to react was Alan, still lying on the ground in a fetal position with a grimace on his face, but clearly with no loss of alertness. The rest of them looked at him with a mixture of terror and shock.

"The strychnine? The poison in Larry's drink?," said Shaw. "As far as I know tasing doesn't cause amnesia."

"I didn't put anything in his drink. He just pissed me off when he said Laurel won't be his assistant anymore after his promotion, after she's been doing everything for him!"

"So you didn't plan this?" Shaw raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Who did plan to kill Larry, then?"

For a moment, there was silence. Everybody in the room cast sideway glances at their friends, suddenly scared one of them was a wannabe murderer.

"You said someone put poison in Larry's drink, right?," one of the men asked. Shaw remembered him being introduced as Rob, Larry's college roommate and best friend.

"Yeah," Sameen said. "Did you see anyone near the glass?"

"Not really, no, but there is someone who would definitely know how to poison someone." Rob made a dramatic pause, like he was on a detective show on TV and he was waiting for commercials to roll in.

"Who?," Shaw prompted him.

Before Rob could reply, Larry seemed to have figured it out, and Root got the expression that unmistakably meant the Machine was talking to her.

"George," Root said, stealing Rob's thunder. "He studied chemistry for a year before changing his major to economics, because his father thought it would give him better opportunities. Of course, that was because old Mr. Jennings never managed to make a career in the stock market, so he pushed his dreams on his son."

Everyone except Shaw gaped at her.

"I was just about to say that," Rob said. "How did you know all that?"

"I have my ways," Root told him, dropping her eyes humbly.

"You must make some damn good P.I.s, you two." Larry's voice was full of amazement.

Shaw smiled.

"Hell yeah."

It was almost three in the morning when Root and Shaw finally made it back to the safehouse. The remainder of the party was spent on notifying Lionel where to find George, making sure Alan would go to anger management classes (Root exercised her ability to be absolutely terrifying to achieve that, and she knew the Machine would let her know if he didn't listen), and everyone trying to get their new favorite personal investigators to share juicy details of their work. They edited their stories in such a way that no one could figure out the involvement of an all-seeing ASI or pick up on their anti-social tendencies.

"It wasn't so bad, was it?," Root asked, when she slipped into bed next to Shaw, wrapping her arm around her.

"Only because we had a number. And I could have my gun."

"You didn't get to use it, though." Root propped her head on her hand and watched Shaw's profile in the almost completely dark bedroom; she kept her eyes closed, clearly as a sign she wanted to sleep, but Root still had things to tell her. "You could've, but you didn't. I appreciate that. Nancy probably does too, it would've been a mess."

Sameen lifted her eyelids a millimeter and turned her head to Root.

"I know what low profile means. And I can control myself. And now, can I please have some sleep?"

"Of course." Root smiled at her in the near darkness and kissed her on the lips.

They settled comfortably on the pillows, Root hugging Shaw to herself with her arm around her midriff. She didn't close her eyes immediately, watching Sameen and feeling her breath evening out.

"I love you," Root said quietly. It wasn't the first time she'd ever said it, though she had always made sure Shaw didn't hear her.

This time she thought the same, and then the answer rang out in the quiet.

"I know."


	5. Slow Day

**Slow Day**

Shaw was bored. Utterly, out of her freaking mind bored. Her hands were itching to shoot a gun, or at least punch someone. Even a stakeout would have done. But no, the Machine was unusually silent. Their last number was the previous night – a simple deal of stopping two guys from robbing a bank just before closing – and she had hoped she would wake up to Root telling her they had something bigger on their plate for today.

What she ended up waking up to wasn't exactly unwelcome, since the first thing she saw was a tray heavy with a proper breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. Root even added a single flower in a slim vase next to all the plates and the mug of wonderfully strong coffee. Those small romantic gestures were still something Shaw was only beginning getting used to, but she had stopped rolling her eyes at them a long time ago. Ex-assassin or not, Root could just be the sappiest person in the entire world, and there was no changing that.

They had stayed in bed until late morning, waiting for the Machine to give them something to work with. When the anticipation was too much, Root decided they were going to go to the subway. Or their office, as she called it, causing Shaw a moment of confusion.

So there they were, sitting around at the two desks in the main area, with the payphone obstinately silent and Bear snoring lightly as he napped by the train car.

"Maybe the Machine's acting up," Shaw suggested, taking her eyes off of the news she was mindlessly scrolling through.

"It isn't, I checked." Root looked up from painting her fingernails black. "She'll let us know when there's anything."

"What if someone got Samaritan back up?"

Root rolled her eyes at that and smiled.

"There's literally nothing left to get back up, She smashed it into smithereens," she said, putting one last touch of polish onto her pinky nail, and wiggled her fingers. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, I'm bored."

At that, Shaw began inspecting their new office. Some things hadn't changed, like the train car and the armory, or Root's bedroom, but she was surprised to find letterheads with their P.I. business logo in a desk drawer. She lifted them up to Root, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"This is really a proper office now?," she asked.

Root only shrugged.

"I thought it was a nice touch. We never really had that with Harold."

"Yeah, because putting Harold's Halfway House for Retired Assassins on paper might've raised some questions." Root smirked at that, and Sameen threw the letterheads back into the drawer she took them out of with a look of slight distaste. "I'm not using those, anyway."

"As you wish," Root said and blew on her perfectly painted fingernails. "I'm still waiting for the company pens."

It was impossible not to roll her eyes, so Shaw didn't restrain herself.

"What's next, embroidered towels? Wait, no, don't answer that. Who's even paying for all of that?"

"I am," Root said with another shrug. "I have some savings."

Shaw propped her feet on her desk and folded her arms over her chest.

"Some savings. How much is some exactly?"

It took a moment for Root to reply, during which she studiously avoided making eye contact. When she finally did answer, she was still examining the fresh layer of black nail enamel.

"A few- Several million."

Shaw blinked a couple of times.

"Come again?"

"I told you. I reclaimed some of my old accounts when I wiped our slates clean. What would be the point of getting back empty accounts?" She smiled brilliantly and leaned in towards Sameen.

"And how did you come by the several million in those accounts?," Shaw asked.

"You should know, Sam, they pay much better in the private sector."

Shaw sighed and pulled away from Root. Money wasn't particularly important for her, but it was impossible not to think that she might have been grossly underpaid working for the ISA.

"So you've been rolling in dough while I was busting my ass hunting terrorists?"

The distance that Shaw created between them, Root promptly made sure to close.

"Figuratively speaking, yes. But you have to consider I might have taken out one or two bad guys over the years."

"Please," Shaw snorted. "Before the whole business with the Machine?"

"There was this one mob boss once?," Root offered, trying to suppress a smile.

They stared at each other for a moment without a word, until Sameen gave up, rolled her eyes and went back to her computer. The payphone was still silent. Damn it.

"Anything new?," asked Root after a moment's silent.

"Nope. The last time the city's been so quiet was- well, when it was Samaritan Town."

Root reached a hand to put it on Shaw's shoulder.

"Told you, it's not Samaritan."

"Can't you just tell her to give us a number?" Sameen used the pleading voice she knew made Root weak.

"You know it doesn't work that way." Root paused and moved in her chair towards the other end of her desk. "But I guess we could kill some time. I don't think we'll be having any clients today."

"Or ever," Shaw muttered, earning a scorn from her girlfriend. "Okay, so what do we do?"

A minute passed without answer as Root rummaged through a drawer, until she found what she was looking for: a slightly fatigued deck of cards.

"Strip poker?," she asked, throwing the small box to Sameen.

"You have definitely had worse ideas."

It wasn't long before Shaw decided Root was cheating. There was absolutely no way for her to be losing every bet, and being so obvious about the hand she was dealt. It couldn't have been a coincidence that Root was sitting there, on the floor of the subway car with only her underwear and one sock left on, while the only item of clothing Sameen had lost was one shoe.

And as much as watching Root half-naked raised no complaints on her part, she'd rather the game was a little bit more even.

So with the next bet, Shaw did what Root wasn't expected and played with a king. She had assumed Root had a great hand because the face she had made when she checked her cards said the opposite.

"Whoops," said Root, presenting her own straight flush. "Guess your luck's run out, sweetie."

Sameen grimaced at her and kicked off her other shoe.

"I just saw you through. You can't keep your face straight."

Root abandoned her remaining cards and tugged Shaw forward by the lapels of her blazer.

"Well, that flush was the only straight thing about me."

"Seriously, can you just stop talking?," Shaw said. She didn't roll her eyes only because they were too focused on Root's lips just inches away.

And soon enough there was no more space left between them, and Shaw didn't even mind that Root pinned her down to the floor, removing her blazer and shirt without looking. They were just lips and hands, and bodies hungry for one another. There was no way they would be left without bite marks and bruises, and neither of them minded.

Shaw was just about to finally get to the clasp of Root's bra when someone cleared his throat at the door.

"Haven't you two heard of locking the door?"

They jerked apart, Root completely at ease, combing her unruly hair off her face, while Shaw grabbed her recently removed shirt to cover herself with it. She wasn't particularly embarrassed to be caught in flagrante delicto, but she preferred keeping these things to herself. And Root.

Lionel Fusco was standing in the middle of the subway with a white cardboard box in his hands, and an expression of thinly veiled amusement on his face.

"We weren't expecting visitors, Lionel," Root said politely and made her way – still in her panties, bra and one sock – over to him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "You could've called."

"Oh right, 'cause you're civilized people now," he said sarcastically. "Next time I'll warn you."

"What's that?," Shaw asked, having put her shirt back and pointing at the box.

"Donuts, what'd you think? An office warming gift, or whatever."

The box was out of his hands in seconds.

"That's very sweet of you," Root said and patted Fusco on the arm. Shaw was already devouring a bearclaw.

"Yeah, yeah, can you put some clothes on, Cocoa Puffs?" Root made a sad face at him, but sashayed to the stack of the clothes she had lost at poker. "So this is what you're doing here, huh? Playing dirty games?"

Shaw swallowed an enormous bite of the pastry and licked icing off one of her fingers.

"She doesn't let me shoot people, so yeah."

"What she means to say is, we haven't had anyone to shoot since last night," Root shouted from the train car where she was dressing herself. "We usually play dirty games at home."

Lionel made a face.

"Alright, alright, spare me the details." His face turned serious, and Shaw reached for another donut. "So, that thing's still talking?"

"Yes, She is," Root said firmly, before Sameen could say anything more about glitching. "It's just been quiet today, so we're waiting."

Fusco settled into one of the chairs for clients and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't speak for a moment, looking around the subway. When Root offered him coffee, he accepted a cup with a monosyllable.

"So, you know, if you need something- check out some bad guys or something, you got my number, yeah?," he said eventually.

Root and Shaw exchanged a glance. They had decided to keep Lionel in the safety of the 8th Precinct and involve him as minimally as possible in their semi-legal activities. It seemed, however, that he was prepared to go back to work for the Machine in his previous capacity.

This was not the plan, although there was no need to read him in on it. The two of them didn't have much in the way of a normal life, and they weren't about to take the semblance of it that Lionel was lucky enough to have kept.

"Sure," Shaw said.

"Okay." Fusco took a loud gulp of coffee, set his cup back onto the desk, and got up, heading to the door. "So- uh- have fun."

"Bye, Lionel," Root said in a sing-song voice, and Sameen gave him a tiny wave.

The door closed behind him, and Shaw finished stuffing her third donut into her mouth.

"Wanna get back to what we were doing?," she asked, sucking at her icing-sticky index finger.

There was no need to prompt Root. She bit her lip seductively and took to taking all her clothes off again. Before she could remove more than just her shirt, the subway filled with the familiar sound of the payphone ringing.

They leaped towards the phone in perfect synchronicity.


	6. Hold Your Fire

**Hold Your Fire**

It was probably the first time Shaw caught herself tapping her fingers nervously on a table. Or on anything really. She showed up early to an overpriced coffee shop in Downtown Manhattan, gulped half of her usual Americano in one go, and waited. In the meantime, it seemed she developed anxiety.

Maybe the anxiety had been there before, muted as everything else she ever felt, and now it just bubbled to the surface, demanding attention by the silly tick of banging fingertips on the sticky wooden tabletop that someone had probably forgotten to clean in the last week or three months. After all, she'd been putting off this meeting for weeks now. She reasoned with herself that she was busy with Root being back, with new numbers coming in, with the new business they were starting, with re-adjusting to a semi-regular life. But she knew deep down it was all bull.

She simply didn't want to have to say these words she was going to say, and to someone she genuinely liked. Before this, she wasn't even sure she was capable of sympathy. She used to marvel at how difficult giving bad news to families was for all the other doctors in her intern program, right up to the moment when her superiors fired her for doing that with no distress.

Now, she supposed she knew what those people must have felt like, and she couldn't imagine her own feelings to be muted. How could people even handle all these emotions on a daily basis?

"Shaw."

A familiar voice jerked her out of her thoughts. Zoe Morgan was standing by the table, armed with a gigantic paper cup she must have just received at the counter. Sameen gestured for her to sit down.

"Have you been waiting long?," Zoe asked sitting down and took a sip from her cup.

"I was early." Shaw waved her hand dismissively. "How's the- you know- fixing these days?"

Zoe raised an eyebrow.

"You honestly didn't want to meet me to catch up." She paused, watching Shaw turn her half-empty cup in her hands. "So what is it?"

"Kinda- catching up." Shaw lifted her gaze back at her friend, but looked immediately away again. "It's about John."

There was a moment of silence between them. Shaw couldn't make herself say anything more, but instinctively she knew she didn't have to.

"He's dead, isn't he?," Zoe said quietly. "Guess I was right not to plan a white picket fence, huh?"

"Yeah, he'd probably have used it to stab someone at some point."

They exchanged a glance and smiled sadly.

"Touché."

"Do you wanna know how-?" And there was the inability to say things again. As if saying or not saying them could change reality. So stupid.

"Knowing him, he was being a hero, saving someone."

Sameen nodded.

"The world. Big damn idiot of a hero."

"But we wouldn't want him any other way."

To that, Shaw answered with a snort. However great a void John had left, there was no denying his hero complex made up a lot of who he was. It was impossible to imagine what he could have been without it.

"So, what have you been up to? Still working with Harold?," Zoe asked, blinking in a clear attempt to fight away tears.

"Harold's gone- He's in Paris," Shaw hastened to clarify. "Retired. But other than that, not much's changed. Saving people, beating up bad guys, same old."

"On your own? If you need help, I could send some trusted guys your way."

Shaw shook her head and smiled.

"Thanks, but I got that-" She paused, noticing a tall figure of a woman making a graceful bee-line between the tables, carrying a large drink that Shaw could easily identify as an iced vanilla latte, no whip. "-covered. Remember there was this psycho that once kidnapped Harold?"

"Root, I remember. She worked with you later, didn't she?"

By then, Root had made her way to their table and stopped directly behind Zoe.

"Yup," Shaw said, casting a glare up at her. "Also, she's behind you."

Root waved her hand, sipping her drink, and sat in the last free chair at their table.

"So it's the two of you working together now? Beating up bad guys and all?," Zoe asked.

"Beating up bad guys and so much more," Root said with a wide grin.

Shaw gave her an exasperated look and sighed.

"Yeah, so, we're also kinda dating."

"Kinda, Sameen?" Root leaned in towards Zoe, who was trying not to look amused. "She has commitment issues."

"Does she?," Zoe asked with fake surprise. "Wouldn't have guessed."

There was a change in Root's facial expression then that Shaw immediately knew had nothing to do with the conversation they were having. Root's eyes, even though still technically looking at Zoe, lost focus. She put her iced coffee down on the table, jangling the ice cubes on the plastic walls of the cup, and reached into her pocket.

"When your client asks you, recommend us," she said, placing a business card in front of Zoe. "Shaw, we gotta go."

And without further explanation, she got up, grabbed her drink with one hand and Shaw's elbow with the other, and dragged her towards the door.

Root offered no explanation to Shaw until they were back at the subway and she had pulled up all the information they were going to need regarding their new number. His name was Dixon Winther, and he was a New York state senator, in office for the last five terms. In his fifties, he was apparently happily married to a real estate broker named Sandra, with whom he had had two children. The only thing that made his story stand out was the fact that his son was shot and killed in a drive-by shooting when he was eleven. This seemed to have pushed Winther to passionately support gun control laws, which surely must have garnered the senator numerous enemies.

"So what'd you think?," Shaw asked, eyeing the photograph of the graying man that was looking back at them from the computer screen. "Vic or perp?"

"Victim." Root seemed convinced. "But, more importantly, client."

She had barely finished speaking, when steps rang out in the hallway and the door to their office opened, revealing the senator in the flesh. The man looked tired and stressed out, with deep purple circles under his eyes. Root promptly closed the files they'd just been looking at.

"Hi, how can we help you, sir?," she said, standing up and gesturing towards the chair on the other side of her desk.

"It seems I might be in need of some assistance," Winther said, casting uncertain glances around the office. Whether it was that the place didn't inspire confidence in him, or the fact that all he found were two women and a dog, it was difficult to tell. "I was directed to you by Zoe Morgan. I believe you know her."

Shaw felt an urge to roll her eyes at Root's impeccable foresight, but instead she smiled.

"Yes, of course. What seems to be the problem?"

She could tell Root was looking at her with pride and she kicked her in the shin under the table. Root somehow managed to keep a straight face.

"Well, I have been receiving threatening e-mails," Winther said. He clasped his hands together in front of him to keep them from shaking. "At first it was every now and then, from different accounts, but recently- it's escalated."

"Escalated how?," Shaw asked.

The senator untwined his fingers and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, revealing a few sheets of paper folded together, and passed them to her.

"They've been getting more frequent, and much more- personal."

The pages contained the text of several e-mails, all of which were dated as no older than three weeks. All of them contained threats directed at the senator's daughter, if the senator didn't withdraw his support of further amendments to the gun control laws in the state of New York. Shaw handed the papers to Root, although she was convinced there was no information in them that would be new to her.

"Lucy? Is that your daughter?," asked Sameen, pretending not to know the name, exact age and occupation of his only surviving child.

Winther nodded.

"She's a student at Columbia. She has nothing to do with my job, she shouldn't be involved in this." His hands began shaking again, so he put them together again. "If they were just threatening me, I wouldn't even bother, but- You see, my son was killed when he was just a little boy, and I'm not going to let anyone hurt my daughter. And they want me to turn my back on an issue that is- has always been vital to me. So what I want you to do, is find the bastard who's threatening my daughter. Miss Morgan said that if anyone could help me, it'd be you."

Root and Shaw exchanged a look; of course, Zoe knew their efficiency well enough to say that. And neither of them could deny that there was probably no one better cut out for the job.

"I guarantee you, she was right," Root said with a smile. "We'll track down whoever's been sending the e-mails."

"But that's part of the problem," said Winther. "I've had people track them, and they all failed. They said that it was impossible to find the person who sent them."

"It may have been impossible for them," Root said dubiously, and started typing quickly on her laptop keyboard. "For me, it might just turn out time-consuming."

Shaw couldn't suppress a half-smile.

"She's really good at this kinda thing."

"I was hoping you'd say something like that," the senator said. "Are you sure this is just a matter of time, Miss…?"

Root stopped typing for a moment and waved her hand.

"You can just call me Root."

"That's an odd first name."

"It's more of a- nickname, but everyone calls me that," she said.

"Okay then. So you're going to find them?"

She gave him a reassuring smile.

"Absolutely."

It looked like a burden lifted off of Dixon Winther's shoulders, and when he handed them his business card and shook their hands, his own weren't trembling anymore.

"I'll let you know as soon as we find out anything," Root told him.

"I'll be waiting for news, then."

He bid them goodbye and left the office. Root went back to typing as soon as the door closed.

"Not everyone calls you that," Shaw said, making her way to the armory. "Fusco doesn't."

"Because Lionel has a pet name for me, that's different, Sameen."

Shaw snorted.

"His pet name for you is supposed to be an insult, Root."

"He doesn't mean it like that." Root looked up from the computer screen for a moment. "Do you know where you're going?"

Even though neither of them had said it out loud, the assignment of tasks was obvious enough for them. Root was doing her hacker thing, and Shaw's job was to keep an eye on Lucy Winther while the blackmailer remained unidentified.

"I'm guessing you're gonna tell me right now, but wherever that is, I'm probably gonna need a gun."

"You're almost as good at this as me," Root crooned, and scribbled something on a piece of paper.

"Except I don't need an all-seeing AI in my ear for that."

Root made a face and walked up to her, handing her the note.

"Corner of Amsterdam and West 120th. Don't dawdle."

Shaw rolled her eyes, shoving the piece of paper into her pocket. She was about to make her way to the door when Root grabbed her by the lapels of her blazer and kissed her on the mouth. It was a short, soft kind of kiss, the kind that said, _I wish you weren't going, but at least think of me while you're gone_.

It lasted just a few seconds before Root let her go, and Sameen cast a bewildered glance at her. Root acted like she didn't notice, and returned to her desk.

"See you later, Sam!"

Shaw found Lucy Winther right where Root directed her: in a pizza place next to Columbia. The girl was accompanied by three friends, and none of them paid any attention to Shaw who took a table opposite them and bluejacked Lucy's phone.

There was no activity on the device that would be alarming in any way. She was an avid instagrammer, she frequently texted her friends, and the majority of her phone's memory was taken up by music. Nothing in her messages or e-mails was threatening. Maybe the senator's daughter wasn't in any real danger after all.

Maybe his number came up for a completely different reason.

"Root, please tell me you got something," Shaw muttered after half an hour of eavesdropping the idle gossip of four college students. Her only comfort was the delicious pepperoni she felt obligated to order to avoid looking suspicious.

"Patience, Sameen," Root chirped in her ear-piece. "Whoever these guys are, they know what they are doing. They used some sophisticated encryption to hide themselves. She's working on it now."

"So you're chilling at the subway, while I'm on babysitting duty? How is that fair?," Shaw snorted.

"Judging by what I'm hearing you're not suffering too much, unless that pizza is being shoved down your throat with main force. Anyway, I'm going to run facial recognition on the pictures from Lucy's phone, just in case."

"Yeah, whatever. FYI, there's nothing suspicious going on here. Not even health code violations."

"Enjoy your pizza, Sameen," Root said and ended their conversation.

Shaw rolled her eyes, hoping Root would instinctively know that she did. It did seem more and more like they didn't need to talk to communicate with each other, and even though it was useful, she found it the tiniest bit scary.

Maybe Root was right when she told Zoe that she had commitment issues. Shaw herself wasn't quite sure if that was the best way to name her unwillingness to be in a relationship. She had always found it difficult to get involved with anyone because everybody had all those feelings, emotions she couldn't quite comprehend or reciprocate. Ultimately, whenever she enjoyed being with someone, they wanted too much, expected things she simply was incapable of, or figured she was a freak.

And then there was Root. Root who felt exponentially more than Shaw ever did, probably more than most of humanity. Root who wouldn't stop bothering her, but also who didn't run away when Shaw just couldn't give her more. Root who understood.

For a very long time, Shaw pushed back all the thoughts about the two of them together. She didn't dare think about it being serious; she wasn't the relationship kind, they were lethal as it was, no need to complicate things, having sex to pass the time was enough, it wasn't as messy as a full-blown relationship would be. All that got ruined when Samaritan spent months torturing her, pulling things to the surface and unwittingly making her confront them. Over seven thousand times she heard Root say they belonged together, and with each time, it felt truer and truer.

Ironically, the thing that kept tearing them apart, brought them together.

And now, there was this tiny spark somewhere in the center of Shaw's chest, buried deep down and unrecognizable, that she was beginning to think was happiness. It wasn't an overpowering emotion, it was hardly an emotion at all, it was just a faint warmth it seemed she could discern at the thought of Root, of waking up next to her, of taking Bear for walks together, of those little gestures that Root made that were cheesy and romantic, and sort of endearing. Of that kiss right before she left the subway that afternoon.

And in the middle of her boring stakeout, chewing an overpriced pizza, she found herself smiling.

The subway was quiet, almost empty without Shaw. There was the steady hum of computers as the Machine worked Her way through the encryptions and facial recognition, and the odd squeaks of the toy Bear was gnawing on. Root was bored; she did all the things she could do manually, but that only took her a little while. She wished she could have gone out with Shaw, her instructions, though, were to stay where she was. Open system or not, the Machine always had Her whims.

So Root went through everything they had again. The e-mails the senator gave them were specific enough to know what to fear, but vague enough to conceal any possible hints as to the author's identity. The recurring line was that _your daughter will end up like your son_ , which she found interesting. No one and nothing else was ever threatened. Maybe there was something about Lucy that made her a target, other than her father's political stances.

Except, there was nothing extraordinary about her. Root examined her digital footprint, only to find an overflowing Instagram account and a lot of other, painfully detailed, social media. As could be expected from any other twenty-year-old in the developed world. She had friends and apparently a boyfriend, but none of them stood out right away.

Root sighed and was ready to give up her search, when the facial recognition software found a match to a few of the photos from Lucy's cell phone.

The match was a young man, approximately Lucy's age, with closely cropped mousy brown hair, who Root had assumed was her boyfriend.

Without a second's delay, Root opened a comms line to Shaw.

"You haven't seen her boyfriend around by any chance?," she asked.

"No. Who's he?"

Root sent his mugshot to Shaw's phone.

"Michael Vogel. He's been detained by NYPD on a couple of occasions at illegal demonstrations."

"Don't tell me, he protested further limitations to the state gun laws," Shaw guessed.

"Bingo. He's a far-right activist, and by day he works the grill at a burger place in Queens.

"How poetic. You want me to pick him up?"

"No," said Root. "She wants me to deal with him for now. She's still making sure if the e-mails originated with him." The laptop in front of her pinged as an IP and a street address popped up on the screen. "Perfect timing. It's him. The e-mails originated at the place his activist group uses as an office. They're called Keeping America Protected."

Shaw snorted.

"As much as I'd shoot anybody who'd touch my guns, these people are idiots."

"But it seems they are also willing to shoot if someone would try prying their guns out of their hands." Root walked up to the armory to get her own pistol. "I'm gonna see if anyone else could be our blackmailer. You stay put on Lucy."

"She's on the move," Shaw replied.

"Happy tailing," Root said, smiling the way she would if they were talking face to face.

She patted Bear on the head and locked the office door behind her, walking out into the bustling Chinatown street.

Lucy Winther said goodbye to her friends outside the restaurant and made her way to Morningside Park. For someone whose life had been threatened she seemed entirely at ease. She went into the park in the gathering darkness without casting a glance around. At least that made Shaw's job extremely easy.

They crossed the park, Sameen following several meters behind Lucy, and as they were reaching the street on the other side, a figure became visible in front of them.

"Here comes Romeo," Shaw muttered into her comms line to Root. By then, Lucy jogged up to him and put her arms around his neck, kissing him. "Ugh, do I have to watch the bodily fluid exchange?"

"Stay on mission, Sameen," Root said in a sing-song voice on the other end of the line. "I'm on my way to the gun enthusiasts' office, so let me know if they separate."

"They better do that right now or that pizza won't stay down long."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," Shaw said, rolling her eyes. The couple broke apart, and with arms wrapped around each other, they started down the street. "They're moving. And where are you, anyway?"

"On my way to the Bronx to check out that office."

"Okay, and what do I do if these two split up? Is the Machine gonna let you know if the guy's about to walk in on you playing burglar at his place?"

Shaw could picture the expression that Root had to be wearing. It was annoying, this whole almost telepathic thing.

"Don't worry, Sam, I got it covered."

At that, the call ended. Lucy and her boyfriend were now walking slowly down Morningside Avenue, chatting and laughing like any carefree young couple in love. It was hard to imagine that the guy was threatening the girl's life for political reasons. They looked so painfully normal, it made Shaw cringe.

The office barely even deserved that name. It was a dank little space in the basement of an old building, crammed with grabby furniture and lamely decorated with a large Confederate flag on one of the walls. The only computer was an old laptop, standing next to a wireless router which was hooked up to a bunch of cables dragged from upstairs. Root had her suspicions that Michael Vogel never paid a dime for his internet connection.

A password protected the laptop from unauthorized use, though for Root it was no more than half a minute's worth of work to get onto the computer. Within another minute she found a list members of Vogel's gun-friendly organization, which turned out to be surprisingly short. There were five names in total, and a quick search of the four that hadn't been checked earlier revealed that they hadn't attended any demonstrations or been involved in any other activities within the last six months.

Root raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. Apart from the questionable décor choices and the computer, there were traces of recent human presence everywhere: dirty coffee mugs and emptied takeout Chinese boxes, a crumpled blanket on the threadbare couch. The hand towel in the tiny bathroom was damp, and someone had left their toothbrush on the sink. It seemed despite the lack of co-operation from his fellow members, Vogel still spent quite some time running Keeping America Protected.

Or sending threatening e-mails to a New York State senator.

She was just about to have a closer look at the insides of all the cabinets in the office, when her comms line went online.

"Hey, where exactly in the Bronx are you?," Shaw asked. "'Cause we just got off the D train at Tremont."

"Three blocks west of you it would seem."

"Make it two and a half. And get your ass outta there."

"Nice to know you care, Shaw," Root said, "but I'm pretty sure I should stay."

"Whatever. But I'm not patching you up if you get shot."

"I won't."

Root took a step towards a large metal cabinet whose contents she was guessing were items out of Vogel's personal collection of firearms. She grinned to herself.

"Hello there."

And swiftly, she emptied the bullets out of the five handguns, two assault rifles and one machine gun she found. She was just closing the cabinet door when the Machine let her know Vogel and Lucy were about to enter.

"Showtime," she said to herself with a smile.

She folded her arms over her chest and leaned on the wall. Outside, Michael Vogel was telling his girlfriend how he was sure he had locked the door when he was leaving.

"I don't want anyone creeping around my stuff," he said, pushing the door open, and stopped dead.

Root waved and pointed to the Confederate flag above her.

"Nice touch. Especially if you wanna scream _gun-toting white supremacist_ or something," she said.

"What the fuck are you doing here? This is private property," he said calmly, despite a vein in his forehead pulsating like crazy.

"Of course, although not your property, since you sublet it from the owner who lives upstairs and whose internet you've been stealing."

Lucy was standing in the doorway, unsure what to do for a moment, before walking in and clinging to her boyfriend protectively.

"Get out or we'll call the cops," she said, looking stubbornly at Root. "Also we're armed."

Root smiled at her condescendingly. Behind Lucy and Michael, Shaw appeared in the doorway with her gun drawn.

"I wouldn't expect anything else. I just need to ask Michael something." Root paused, and watched as he unglued himself from Lucy and opened the gun cabinet. As soon as he grabbed a 9-millimeter handgun, he realized it was oddly light and he looked up in horror at Root. "Did you honestly think no one could trace the e-mails back to you?"

He clenched his jaws and his fists, trying to contain his anger, although it seemed self-control wasn't his strong suit.

"What are you talking about?," he asked.

"You know, the threats you've been sending to Senator Winther," Shaw said from the doorway, shrugging.

Vogel pointed his gun at her instinctively; Shaw seemed completely unfazed, in contrast to Lucy, whose face was blanching rapidly.

"It's none of your business," he said through his teeth.

"Pretty sure it is, since he hired us," Shaw said and casually directed her gun at Lucy. Both she and Vogel screamed. Root was watching without a word. "So what's it gonna be?"

"Stop pointing at her!," Michael yelled, powerless with his empty gun.

"I thought you liked guns," said Sameen with a shrug. "Also, threatening the senator's daughter, who you happen to be dating, for political gain? Really? Did you seriously think that would work?"

Lucy sobbed loudly, eyeing the barrel of Shaw's gun.

"It was my idea, leave him out of it!"

That made Root's head jerk up, and she pushed herself off the wall.

"It wasn't about politics," she said, walking up to the girl.

"Leave her alone!," Vogel shouted, and was ignored.

"No!," Lucy blubbered. "He's just such a jerk, all he talks about are the guns laws, and my brother, and politics, and he doesn't give a crap about me, I just wanted him to care about me for once!"

Shaw rolled her eyes and put down her gun.

"So you got your boyfriend to threaten your life," Root finished.

None of them noticed there was another addition to the party until that moment.

"What?"

The faint question sounded in the doorway and everyone's heads turned that way to see the senator in person, looking even more exhausted than earlier at the subway.

"Senator, we're handling this," Root said. "And by the way, how did you get here?"

"I had someone in my office track Lucy's cell phone. She didn't come home when she said she would."

"And you didn't think we were keeping an eye on her?," Shaw asked.

"I wanted to make sure- I-" He paused. "I didn't know what to think. What if something had-"

His voice broke. Lucy stopped crying and gaped at her father in astonishment.

"Daddy? It's okay, I'm safe, no one wanted to hurt me."

She took an uncertain step towards him, then another, until he reacted and closed the distance to hug her. They stood in an awkward embrace for a long moment. Michael was staring at them with a mixture of surprise and revulsion. Root and Shaw exchanged a glance; they didn't have to say anything, but knew they were both thinking that at least they were getting paid this time for their part in this little family drama.

And then, with no warning, their silent conversation was cut short by the senator yanking Shaw's gun out of her hand and pointing it at Vogel.

"This is all because of you!," Winther said, putting his finger on the trigger.

"Senator-," Root started, but he took no notice of her.

"If she'd never met you, she wouldn't have even thought about anything like this," he kept talking. "This isn't who I raised my daughter to be."

"That's because you _didn't_ raise me," Lucy said quietly behind him, causing him to startle and turn back to her, dumbfounded. "You were never around, you're still never around. And even when you are, all you talk about is Tim." Her voice got louder, bitter and slightly shaky. "I am sick and tired of hearing about my brother! And of how he died, how it was the greatest tragedy of your life, how people shouldn't have guns. God, you're such a hypocrite, Dad. You have guns at the house, you go hunting every year! I wanted to see if you were going to be as big a hypocrite when it came to your children. And it did take you awfully long to do something about it."

Without a word, Winther let his hand drop to his side and took his finger off the trigger. Shaw ducked to remove the gun from his hand.

"I'm sorry," Winther mumbled. His eyes were glued to the floor in embarrassment.

"I guess we're done here," Root said with a wide grin, as she made her way to the door. "We'll mail you the bill."

"It feels good getting paid for saving people's asses," Shaw said, putting down her freshly emptied glass of tequila.

She, Root and Zoe were sitting in a bar downtown, catching up on their client's case.

"It's not too bad in my experience," Zoe said. "So, the daughter was never in any real danger, huh?"

"The only person that was threatened with lead poisoning was her boyfriend," Sameen said. "And that would've been courtesy of our dear senator."

"He was always ready to hurt whoever threatened his daughter," Root added, and took a sip of her cocktail. Whatever it was, it looked like it contained no alcohol at all. But she clearly enjoyed it and kept twirling the little paper umbrella between her fingers. "That's why we- knew he'd need our assistance.

Zoe eyed her for a moment suspiciously.

"One day you'll have to tell me how you know these things."

"But," Shaw countered, "first I wanna know what exactly it was that Winther needed you for."

She gestured to the bartender to get her another shot of tequila and turned her full attention to Zoe.

"Oh, just his little fetish," she replied with a mischievous smile. "Because as much as he opposed gun laws, he is a great fan of being smacked around by a woman. One dominatrix wanted to milk him for some money in exchange for keeping her mouth shut about it. I made sure she had nothing to back up her words."

Shaw nodded pensively.

"I figured it would be something like that. I hate politicians."

"Well, anyway," Zoe said. "You saved everyone's asses. Let's drink to that."

"And to our first paying client." Shaw lifted her glass, and the others followed suit.

They downed their drinks and fell silent for a long moment. Their thoughts turned in the same direction; to the person they all held dear and who was never coming back. Shaw signaled the bartender to pour them a round of tequila, and then distributed the glasses.

"To Reese."


End file.
